Hero Complex
by SpiritBearr
Summary: James Kirk, met James Kirk.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Hero Complex

Rating: T

Disclaimer: No own I. (Nor do I own the Horta, or intend to offend in anyway said creature by mocking it's commendable attempts at English.)

Summary: Jim Kirk, meet Jim Kirk.

A/N: Okay, okay, so maybe it's been done. But I DO love the idea of Jim meeting Jim. (And the others their counterparts, as well.) As I said, this is a touch AU from both movie and series….I think. Actually, that's probably the wrong term to use, but oh well. It is what it is, and even I'm not entirely sure where this is going. Probably a one-shot….might end up being a chaptered thing.

Hero Complex

What I did in some distant past life, I will never know, but I think I'm still paying for it.

At least, with the size of the headache I have, I believe that right now. I groan softly, lifting a hand to my skull. "Bones?" I try. He was with me. Standing right beside me on my _Enterprise_ just moments before-before _what_?

"Here, Jim." He sounds like he's as bad off as I am. I open my eyes and glance over to where he's just sitting up, hand on his forehead and other flat on the smooth, white surface of the floor. Hell, _everything's_ white in here- walls, ceiling, floor, the one door that I'll bet every credit I have is locked.

"Alright?" I ask, then, "Spock, alright?" I add, because apparently he's here, too. He was close enough to me-that makes sense, I suppose. If, that is, it was our position that caused us to be transported here, and not the will of someone else targeting us specifically.

I'm _also_ willing to bet those credits it's the latter.

"I am unhurt, Captain." Spock's mild baratone rolls over me comfortingly, and then- "Headache like nobody's business, but I'm okay, too, Jim." From Bone's drawl, and I relax and push myself to my feet.

Bad idea.

The world spins, tilts, and I stagger to a knee, hear Bones snap my name and in seconds he's there, running his tricorder and fussing over me. "I'm alright," I say, "I'm alright, Bones, just took a blow to the head or-something-I'm not sure…."

"No one struck us." Spock says quietly. "But it is not unreasonable to assume whatever transported us here- wherever _here_ may be- has disturbed your body's balance."

"Wherever indeed." I mutter, staring at the tiny, white room. "And why?"

"Well, it wasn't just us." Bones says, straightening and giving me a hand up. The world, blissfully, stands still this time for the most part. He points, and I see the three limp bodies in the far corner of the room. It's too dark to get a good look, from this distance, and I glance back at Spock and Bones, sighing.

"I assume there's no way out but that door. And that's locked."

"Correct." Spock says, a touch of humor in his eyes.

"And those three?…."

"Were here when I woke up, which was right before you did. Spock was already up and around." Bones gives him a look that is half-playful, half irritated, and all fond if you know how to read it. Spock's _not smile_ touches his lips, tipping up the edges, and I know he does.

"It is logical that I recovered well before my _human_ companions." He says, with just a touch of emphasis on 'human'. McCoy mutters something about _speciesist space elf_, and I wisely don't call him on the comment.

"Those three haven't woke up?" I inquire, and start slowly in that direction and reaching for-well, where my weapon _should be_. My phaser is gone. I freeze, glancing at Spock and Bones, who are now also checking themselves for their own weapons.

"It seems whoever brought us here wishes us vulnerable." Spock murmurs. "Or are non-hostile and wish to assure we remain so, as well."

The three forms in the corner don't look that old- or that large. I approach cautiously, ignoring McCoy's sharp 'Jim, careful' as he comes up on my left. He's still got his medical kit, and his hand has unconsciously drifted towards it.

Closer, I can see the three are in Starfleet uniforms, which make my eyebrows shoot up- two in blue, one in command gold, and all three looking incredibly young. I reach out gently, as Bones takes a position by my side and nods, once, scanning him. "I'm not picking up on any significant injuries."

So I reach out and turn the form over. He is a slender, tall male, powerful but not muscular, with a shock of shaggy black hair and the short-sleeved blue uniform of a medical officer. And when I turn him over-

-I freeze. Beside me, Bones lets out a low, shocked curse, and Spock's eyebrow darts up, because there is no mistaking who we're looking at. He's younger- _years_ younger- and the worry and stress lines have only stared around his eyes and mouth. He's lacking the touches of gray in his hair, he's more filled out, there's stubble touching his chin and cheeks and when he opens his eyes slowly with a low, husky groan, they are golden brown, not the blue of earth's sky.

But it is unmistakably _Bones_.

"Impossible." Bones whispers-_my_ Bones whispers- to my left.

"I should think by now you'd understand that much more is possible then humans give credit for, doctor." Even Spock sounds a bit breathless. The brown eyes of the groggy not-Bones below us drift shut again, and he groans, twisting away. He curls around himself in pain, and my Bones pushes me aside, moving in to administer a hypo and begin a more old fashioned-and to Bones, preferable-method of checking the younger-him for injuries.

"Logically," Spock muses, "if doctor McCoy's younger counterpart is here, then these two-"

He glances at me, and I glance at him, and we move in unison to the other prone forms. I turn over the second male, whip-coard thin and tall and even from the back it's undeniable who I'm looking at with the slick black near-bowl cut of hair and faint greenish tinge to his skin. I turn not-Spock over gently, and he does not open his eyes- just stirrs with a furrowing of his elegant, upswept brows. This one is also younger- the lines and wear is not there on his face, there is something delicate and even _pretty_ in his younger features, but otherwise it is Spock, from pointed ears to slender hands.

"Spock," I whisper, tracing a finger along said ear. He doesn't wake, but moves away from the contact instinctively.

"And you, Jim." Spock says, and I rise, taking a moment before coming over to look down at-

Myself.

Eerie. Very, distinctly eerie. Even in that Mirror relm, I hadn't seen _myself_-and the one time I _have_, it wasn't a younger me. But at the same time, this _isn't_ me, just like that McCoy isn't McCoy and that Spock isn't my Spock. This Jim Kirk is roughly ten years my junior-his hair is a lighter blond then my own, and much less controlled, and he's taller then me, I notice, or will be standing up, and thinner by a hair. There was no Tarsus during a crucial period of his growth, I think, nothing to stunt his growth and affect his eating habits. But there are scars I don't have on the parts of his body I can see, and lines around his mouth and chin that he shouldn't have so young. He's tan like me, though, and generally built the same-husky, fighter's build.

And then his eyes, open, too, and I feel my breath catch. Because not even Bones'-_my_ Bones'-eyes are that blue. I've _never_ seen eyes that electrifying color, not in person, and for a moment it takes my breath away.

Also, it's strange to see _myself_, but not quite me, too. Surreal.

The not-me, the younger me, studies me calmly for a moment, as if working me out the way I'm working him out, then frowns, starting to shift as if he means to sit up. "Aw, _man_," He groans, and I'm startled by his voice, which is so similar to mine but so obviously younger, missing the husky quality that comes with age. "this world is _so_ not ready for two Jim Kirks."

I burst out laughing. I can't help it-it's so _true_, and so bluntly phrased, and entirely _not_ what I would say upon waking to stare an older version of myself in the face.

He blinks, focusing further on me when I laugh, and grins-crooked, lopsided, my grin, and I'm struck again by how _insane_ this all is. "At least you're taking it well." I reply, extending a hand to help him up because he's struggling. He pauses, looks down at my hand and up to me before allowing his gaze to meander to Spock and then Bones- my Spock, my Bones, not his. "Well, if universe ending paradoxes are gonna happen, guess it's a little late to stop it." He mutters, and accepts my hand. I tug him up easily, and he takes a moment to balance, hand on my shoulder. "It's not," he drawls, "exactly the first time. Wow. So you must be him, hu? Me, I mean." He stops, blushes, and I wonder what the hell he means by that. How does a younger me (from another reality, if I'm reading the slight differences correctly)…..know about me?

Meanwhile, my Bones is gently helping his younger counterpart to sit up. Brown-and-blue eyes glint over to us, and in _perfect unison_, two southern drawls interrupt our conversation.

"Damnit, Jim, sit down!"

Blink. Pause. The younger me drops obediently with a sheepish smirk, and I back up a step, a touch unnerved by just how _Bones-like_ this young Bones really is.

Spock- my Spock, Mr. Spock- also lifts his head, his _not smile_ in place- I wonder if the younger one does that, too- as his young version stirrs at the noise, starting at last to come around.

"There's _three_ of him now? Heaven help us all." Young-Bones mutters, which is every bit as intriguing as Young-Me's comment "Aren't two green-blooded computerized half breeds _enough_ for one timeline?"

"There's another one?" My Bones querries, eyebrows up, and the tangle gets just a little bit worse as young Bones instantly clams up. "Maybe I ought not t've said it-"

"I think it's alright, Bones." Young-Me says, holding his head with his eyes closed again. "After all, _our_ Spock knows about the A-about old Spock, and _despite_ both of them lying to me-"

"Implying." Comes the tired correction from the now-awake young Spock, who has the same brown eyes as my Spock- in some, strange way, that's almost reassuring- and is studying my Spock in quiet, accepting curiosity. He _does_ have the _not-smile_. It's right there, plainer even then my Spock's _not smile_, at least if you know how to look. "He _implied_. Vulcans do not lie."

"-_lying_ to me, the world didn't blow up." He lowers his hand, blinking up at me. "So yes, there is another one. Older then you, actually." He says, to my Spock. "But from the same timeline, I think."

And now, my head hurts. Well, _worse_.

"So you _are_ from another timeline. An….alternate reality, of sorts." My Spock muses, and young-Bones snorts.

"Technically, _you_ are." He points out dryly. "As this is _our_ reality."

"Actually, we do not know where we are, nor which 'reality' we are currently inhabiting." Young Spock's voice is lighter- much lighter- then my Spock's voice. It doesn't have the sand-papery rough quality to it's undertone, either, and while it's every bit as mellow and calm as my Spock's voice, there is something _different_ in it, something, oddly, that seems more expressive. "If, in fact, we are even inhabiting _either_ of ours, and not an entirely new one."

"Don't _say_ that," Young Bones groans, pressing his fingers to his eyes, at the same time my Bones simply _groans_.

"It's like a perfect, computer-generated _clone_," He whispers to me. "The updated version."

I don't remind him that both Spocks probably heard that. From young Bones' comment, I assume it's the same in this timeline-non stop bickering and name-calling from two supposed grown men, with one blond captain fondly playing ref-wait.

I glance down to the golden uniform my younger self wears, to the rank, an feel my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. At just over thirty years old, I'm known to be the youngest starship captain Starfleet had ever assigned. It was part of why so many people dislike me; it's also part of why so many people _like _me. This Jim Kirk has to be, like I said, at least ten years younger- putting him roughly at twenty five- and is wearing a captain's uniform.

He catches me staring.

"Yeah." He says, twitching one arm out as if showing off a gaudy piece of jewelry. He looks uncertain, and I'm pretty positive that's rare. Even if I wasn't looking at myself, something about this youth suggested he rarely looked anything less then confident, even arrogant. But something about me is intimidating him, and it's not just seeing an older, new version of himself. "Long story."

There is sudden tension in the air. I can feel my Bones' eyes on me, hard, and _that_ Bones' eyes on his Jim, and both Spocks are just watching, considering, measuring. I think if I say the wrong thing, or anything that could be taken as the wrong thing, the two younger counterparts would both be very willing to pounce.

"_Enterprise_?" I affirm, cautiously, and he's grinning suddenly. "'Course," He says, like _what other ship would it be?_, like it's natural and wonderful and he sounds like he's still a little stunned by it- and considering that I still, after years, get a mild thrill out of saying I captain the _Enterprise_, I know _exactly_ what he feels. "She as pretty as my lady?" I ask, all mock-seriousness, and the tension melts away like it never was.

"Prettiest girl I've ever won." He teases back, and we both chuckle, and then young Spock is standing and straightening his tunic.

"I will assume you have already confirmed we are trapped in this room?" He asks, though it's not clear which of us he's speaking to. I reply, more out of habit then anything else. "We have," I say. "As far as I know, no one has attempted to make contact, though our phasers are gone."

"Communicators, too." Young Bones mutters. "Tricorders still here, and fully operational, and we-" He motions at my Bones and himself- "still have our medical supplies."

"Which suggests that your idea of them being peaceful might very well be correct." I muse to Spock. "We've been allowed to keep essentials, but weapons and communications have been cut away."

"But _why_ are we here?" My Bones throws his hands up. "Someone dragged us out of our respective ships and dumped us here, and that can't have been as easy task."

"Easier for some then others." I point out, remembering the number of times we've been transported from the ship to one planet or another without so much as a by-your-leave.

"But to rip us each out of our respective timelines?" I'm amused by how casually we're disusing this- the young me is running a hand on one wall, and doesn't even sound mildly flustered by the subject matter at hand. "That's gotta be harder to do."

Our speech patterns are incredibly different. This me is obviously far more raw- there's something far less _trained_ in feel to him. In look. He doesn't carry himself like a military man-he has confidence and strength, but the straight, upright posture isn't natural, yet- his hands want to be stuffed in pockets instead of resting at the small of his back. He keeps his head down, as if used to ducking or slouching.

"Well, as for why," I say, slowly, chewing my lip, "all we can do, I suppose, is wait it out. And _how_ doesn't matter to me, unless they're unwilling to send us home the same way."

"Just make ourselves comfortable, hu?" Young me's voice is dry and biting- he's not thrilled with the idea, very obviously.

"Unless you have a better idea? Or can suddenly walk through walls. _I_****can't, but who knows what's different in your reality?" I return, with equal snark, and he looks momentarily surprised before he grins our lop-sided grin.

"Apparently not as much as I thought." He says with that grin, shaking his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Teh huge thanks to all of you for the encouragement and patience; FF was having issues AND my library system decided that my log in should be a blocked site out of a clear blue sky, so I had to wait until it was back up and I could get to B&N. I've decided both how this story will be written and how long-roughly-it will be, which is a good few chapters (most likely around fourteen.) Reveiws are my nurishment, kids, and while I may not adress them every chapter, they are very, very appreciated. Also, of course, thanks to all of you lurkers and favoritors.....I appreciate you as well. ^_^**

Things in this timeline are different. Painfully different, in some ways- Vulcan, it seems, is _gone_. Destroyed. And over six billion Vulcans gone with it. I watch Spock- _my_ Spock- pale at the news, his hands behind his hand clenching around themselves and his breath catching. It's subtle, as everything about Spock is subtle, but the sudden darkness and realization in his eyes tells me he knew something was _off_ here- he just didn't know what.

"We have established a Vulcan colony," Young Spock says quietly, and his eyes are forward, his tone relaxed and mild. Dispite the fact that he says it's been over a year now since the incident occurred- long enough for the pain to fade-it's clear that there's more to it then we're being told, and it's still a raw wound for every one of the young crew standing- or slouching, in Bones' case- in front of us. There is a tension between then as the subject is brought up-young Bones watches them both intensely, still leaning on the wall, but he's no longer relaxed. There's a subtle stiffness to his frame now, as if prepared to bolt up. Young me is watching his Spock, just like I am watching mine, but young Spock's eyes are steady, unwavering, on my Spock's, and neither seems to feel the stares of the rest of us.

"I see." My Spock says quietly, as if this explains something only he and his younger counterpart understand. It probably _does_- my Bones turns to glance at me, his expression reflecting what I'm thinking, and something _else_, too, something a little…..wary.

"You see _what_, Mr. Spock?" He asks softly, and it's in his tone, too, that unsure, edgy tone to his voice. It wasn't there a minute ago and I wonder what put it there now.

Spock glances over, and there is _definitely_ a defensive sort of dislike in Young Spock's human eyes, something less having to do with McCoy and more with raw wounds that are currently being poked. I have he suspicion that _this_ version of ourselves have a ways to go before they're as comfortable with each other as _we_ are. They've seen more and been through less, and Young Spock lacks the easy self-confidence that mine seems to have.

My Spock is _adaptable_, and open, and very at home in his own skin. I've almost never seen him embarrassed or ashamed to admit to his human blood- indeed, he has a fierce love and pride for his mother- and while he does seem to regard humans with something very like disdain, a lot of it is for show and to irritate Bones as much as it is genuine distaste.

And when he says he _controls_ his emotions, it's what he _means_. He doesn't _suppress _them; he sets them aside, analyzes them, and holds them in check. I do the same thing, when I have to- when I can't be frightened, for example, when I must be calm and steady for my crew and can not let them see how affect I may be by a situation, not at the moment. Hell, even _Bones_ does it-and I've pointed it out to him. I've seen him completely detached from a dying man, clinical and focused and feeling _nothing_. Not until afterwards, when he shakes violently, every time we have a close call. Every time. I've seen it more then once; he doesn't vomit, or break down, or get drunk (well, sometimes), or throw things or explode. He shakes. Uncontrollably. And if you call attention to it, he gets angry.

Granted, Spock takes it a step further then I or any other human ever will, but we have _all_ seen just how deeply he feels everything he pretends not to feel.

There is something that feels completely _not_ all that in Young Spock- he is just as quiet, as still, as my Spock,- but there is something _on edge_ to him, something that feels like a string that has snapped and might again, if you're not very, very careful how hard you pull on it.

And that, I realize, is what Spock means by _I see_.

"I implore you, doctor, " My Spock is saying, quietly, and seems to be utterly ignoring the burning stare of his younger self. "to recall my reaction when the _Intrepid_ was destroyed."

And that had only been, what a hundred Vulcans? What would the physic death screams of over six billion sound like?

How is this Spock, _so_ young, younger even then my Spock, how is he still _sane_?

Said young Spock has relaxed, marginally, though young me look curious and young McCoy is still stiff in a subtle way- I recognize it from my own Bones as being protective body language. He's not worried _because_ of young Spock, he's worried _for_ him. One year ago, they said it'd happened; is that anything like enough time to stop grieving for the loss of a planet? For a _mother_? Because Amanda had not survived the disaster, according to this Spock.

I remember the woman from when I met her- strong, proud, vibrant, playful. Fiercely human in so many ways, but so gently understanding of the Vulcan lifestyle all at once. I wonder if this Amanda was the same.

Bones has gone quiet, and when I see young me reach over to set a gentle hand on young Spock's shoulder- just once, for a brief moment, careful to avoid skin contact-I think maybe they're more comfortable with each other then I assumed and just awkward around _us_.

Young McCoy meets my eyes, and pushes off the wall, crossing the room to me in four quick, purposeful strides. He reaches out as if to snag my elbow, and his hand freezes half-way, jaw suddenly clenching. I'm not _his_ Jim- instinct has him nearly manhandling me, realization stops him. His protective nature and natural tendency to be physical with others- and he _is, _if he's anything like my Bones- wars with his caution and wariness of the situation. But I stay still and quiet and when I don't move to back him off, his hand closes around my elbow. The grip is firm and calloused, and the same hidden strength my McCoy has is in this one, too, wirey, surprising strength.

"Enough," He says, "of that conversation. Why don't J-uh, the captain….."

"_James_ is fine," I say gently, understanding the momentary confusion. I wondered when the issue would crop up. "and we'll call you Jim, or Captain." I motion at younger me-Jim, and good _Lord_, this situation just got even stranger- smiles slightly and inclines his head. "Works for me." He says with a smirk. He won't stop staring at me, though. Except for when we were having the conversation regarding Vulcan-when his eyes were locked on his first officer- he has continuously been _staring_ at me. Now, maybe that's not so unusual-after all, I think we're all staring a little bit- if the look wasn't the kind you bestow on a hero, on someone you've heard about and imagined and never dreamed you'd ever actually _meet_. And now you're standing five feet away from that person and too shy to say what you _want_ to say.

I never imagined any version of myself as _shy_, least of all around _me_. I'm no Joe Normal, but I'm- just _me_. He should know that better then anyone.

Young Bones doesn't seem to have the same problem. He gives me a smile and steers me to Jim. (I don't think I'll ever get used to that.) "James, then. Why don't James and Jim-" Here he stops, that same _damn that's strange_ look on his face as on mine, "-see if maybe there's a way out of here we missed before. Maybe a false wall or an illusion of some kind."

"It's happened before." Jim says with a shrug, but he won't met my eyes. He offers a grin that I know- I _know_- is completely hollow and false. "At least, to _us_."

"Us, too." I say, keeping my voice mellow. "It's as good an idea as any, B-um, Doctor McCoy."

Young Bones glances up, regards me for a minute, then grins a little crookedly. He looks almost fondly at me before he nods. It's as if he saw me, just in that one moment, for the first time as _Jim_, as the older version of his best friend. I don't know why McCoy wants us to be alone, but he's got some alternative motive, and knowing McCoy there's a good reason behind it. _My_ McCoy, anyway-who is something of a meddler but a healer, too, and if he's pushing us to be alone together then something's wrong, and he thinks I can fix it.

I hope he's right. Because I know me, and if I don't fix it I'm just going to make things far worse.

We separate from the group, each of us holding tricorders- his is slimmer, less blocky then mine, and very obviously newer, without the wear and tear mine has- and at first we work in silence. I can see our friends and their respective counterparts moving in the background, and twice I hear a burst of laughter from Bones and McCoy, which makes Jim and I smile slightly. But we work on opposite sides of the room, and I can feel Jim sneaking looks at me, over and over again. Timid, uncertain looks, as if he wants very badly to drink me in but he can't let himself get caught.

Finally, I turn to face him full-frontal and cross my arms over my chest. "_What_?" I demand, and he jumps slightly and drops his tricorder. _He_, of course, knows that posture and tone of voice meanbusiness, and I'm sure he's used it a few times himself on his new-found crew.

He flushes a little, then blue eyes spark in defiant anger, then his face relaxes into good-natured amusement that's as fake as it was before, all in the span of seconds. He's used to hiding behind humor, used to using a goofy, air-headed technique to get people to underestimate him. I've hidden behind a smile a few times myself, but I've never done the latter, never used it as a shield, the way this me is doing.

What happened, I wonder, to make him so defensive, so _afraid_?

"It's just-" He stops, shaking his head a little. "You're…..I've seen pictures of my-our-dad, and you just- you _look_ so much like him."

Wait. What?

"Pictures of?" I echo, eyebrows up. "You didn't know our father?" I find it hard to imagine my father walking away from my mother and a son. Impossible, in fact. And if this universe's George Kirk is anything like _my_ timeline's George Kirk, that only leaves one other possibility.

One I see in the sudden lowering of the electric blue eyes, the defensive tension of the broad shoulders. "Yeah, well, 's hard to know a dead guy, isn't it?"

And there it is, bare and raw and open. I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. "How?" I ask simply, relaxing my posture, trying to be unintimidating. He looks at me at last, blue steady into my own hazel.

"A hero." He says, but the words have a trace of bitter edge to them. Almost scoffing, he goes on. "A Romulan ship attacked the _U.S.S Kelvin_ when I was being born. The captain was killed. My dad-" He stops, jaw stiff, eyes hard. _Lord_, he's so stiff. So _inward_. "My dad was captain for a grand total of ten minutes. He was supposed to put the ship on autopilot and get out. 'Cept it didn't work. Was too damaged." He's broken into short, choppy sentences, and this I _do_ recognize as my own habit when hurting. When angry. I don't touch him. Touching him right now would be entirely the _wrong_ thing to do. "He flew it into the attacking ship. To give the crew members a chance. To give my mom and I a chance."

I take a deep breath, closing my eyes. His voice holds no awe, no love or respect or admiration. There is bitterness, sharp and clear, under a weary sort of tired anger. The wound is old, and the anger and resentment are taking their toll on him.

"Looks like it worked," I say cautiously, glancing over at the young man who is glaring determinedly at the wall. He snorts, hands fisting white on the tricorder, and I think of the lines on his face and the scars he shouldn't have. "Sounds like he was as brave as I remember him."

"Yeah." The boy whispers, and now there _is_ something soft touching his voice. "With some pretty poor foresight. Don't-" He says, "don't say it. I know he did what he had to. I know he's a hero. _Believe_ me, I know."

I lower my own tricorder, trying to figure out what, exactly, I'm supposed to _say_ here. "I wasn't going to." I say quietly. "Looks to me like you've done right by him, though."

He looks up and my breath is sucked away by the _insecurity_ in those eyes, on his face. I've felt it, of course- a position like mine, like his, it lends itself to the occasional bout of uncertainty. But what I see in his face bypasses what I've ever felt-bypasses what I've ever even _considered_.

He look on his face, right now, far surpasses the _what if I'm not making the right choice_ indecision, or the sudden realization that the wrong choice from you could end up causing the death of one or more men and women. It goes past any moment of self-doubt or crisis of faith, and heaven knows I've had them. Lucky for me, I also have a Bones and a Spock for those moments.

But that look- this look- is that of someone who's spent so long being told _you are not worth it, you will never be good enough_, that he has started to believe it himself.

Never in my life have I heard those words. Even though my independent, more then slightly mischievous streak drove my parents to distraction, they _encouraged_ it. Even Tarsus-no one had expected the disaster that would come of that colony, and they'd sent me there to encourage my passion for exploring and knowing and _life_. They loved that I was afraid of so little. It was the same for Sam. Never in my life do I remember _ever_ feeling unloved, or unwanted. Sam and I could have become _garbage haulers_, and we both know-knew, in Sam's case, and I wince slightly and inwardly as a still-fresh ache pangs gently- that our mother and father would have had to same pride, the same love, for both of us.

(And doesn't that answer my previous question, about a year being enough time to grieve? It's been roughly the same length of time since Sam died-_died screaming horribly, with you safe and sound aboard a Starship, isn't __**that**__ ironic, but don't think about that now not now_-and I'm still grieving for him, still miss seeing his face, hearing his voice-

"_Hey, Jimmy-"_

"_Sam." _

"_Aw, what, afraid your crew will start calling their big, bad Starship CO 'Cap'in Jimmy?-' " _

-on holidays and birthdays, miss knowing even light years away he was _there_. I don't know if I'll ever stop grieving for him and his family.)

Our parents, friends of our parents, they were constantly there to lift, to buoy Sam and I both up, to give us a hand or a leg up a step. _You are intelligent, and strong, and beautiful and amazing_, they said, without ever having to say it to either of us, _and you will change the world_.

I don't know if they were right about that _last_ part, but it was because of that silent support that Sam and I went where we did, so fearlessly, so enthusiastically. The kind of love they had for each other- I'd give my right arm for a love like theirs. They belonged to each other and the stars and us, somehow, all at once, and were fiercely religious. They were the kind of people who were fast to point out that even when you feel alone, you were _not_, and there would always be one someone, at least, to love you.

Waves of homesickness wash over me, remembering it all.

But when I look back down at blue eyes still staring up at me, I realize that in this universe? In this universe, this blond too-young captain in front of me- no matter who he was or wasn't-had been deprived of so much of it, and he _doesn't think he's worth it_.

The idea makes my brain stutter to a shocked halt, an offended halt.

"You don't know-" He's going to say _me_, stops, nearly swallows his tongue. "-anything about this timeline." He finishes after a minute. "How do you know I haven't cheated and lied and bought my way here?"

I raise an eyebrow and stare at him steadily for a very long time in the best Bones imitation I can muster. After a few minutes, his defiant stare lowers and he flushes.

"Well," I say, still staring and taking a gamble. "If there was anything involving the _Kobiashi Maru_, then you _did_ cheat, if somewhat harmlessly, on your _way _here."

His head snaps back up and I grin at him.


	3. Chapter 3

He's grinning.

Of everything I expected, and thought about, and _imagined_ when the Ambassador told me about Other Me, I never even thought he'd be so-so- _normal_. And easy. And relaxed. And _me_. From what I saw in the mind meld, there was this man who glowed golden, who I couldn't see well because things were moving_ so damn fast_, and there was _so damn much_, but he glowed golden and he had a gentle, gentle core and a backdrop of steely will, and he'd been surreal, _unreal_, like a hero or a legend.

Or maybe that had just been me. Or maybe the Ambassador's biased view. Or both? I don't know- I'm pretty much clueless on the whole _Vulcan Mind-Whammy_ deal. Which is kinda funny considering I've sat through one.

But this man- this captian- he's….well, he's _golden_, that's for sure. His eyes are probably hazel, but they don't _look_ hazel, they look amber, like a wolf's eyes. His hair is darker blond then mine, dirty blond, I guess it's called, and he's got it under control in a way I can't always convince mine to be. His skin is surprisingly tan, and really, there's just something that _glows_ about him, something I imagine my dad had, something….strong, and good, and _glowing_.

He's broad, too, like me, but a little shorter-nothing much, just a few inches- and a little huskier, but it's mostly all muscle. And he holds himself….

Damn it all and damn me all to hell, he holds himself like I want to. Like someone who just walks into a room and commands it, who's presence is twice as big as he _really_ is. He's the Good Guy, the consummate hero, knight in shining fucking armor. This is who I would be without the chinks, and the dents, and the scars.

And suddenly I feel really fucking small. And I can't look at him. Even when we talk, I can't look at him, but he's trying _so hard_, so damn hard, and then-

"Well, If there was anything involving the _Kobiashi Maru_, then you _did_ cheat, if somewhat harmlessly, on your _way_ here."

I jerk out of self-pity mode and lift my eyes again. Hazel ones stare back, steady and unflinching, but he's still grinning at me and his eyes sparkle with _undeniable_ mischief.

Whoa. No way. No _fucking_ way.

"But you- why would you-"

A shrug, a laconic drawl that's _eerie_ to hear because I've _heard_ myself use that tone before. "I could." He replies simply, "and I don't like no-win scenarios. Also, I don't like to loose."

_No __**fucking**__ way._

And then it's gone, just like that. He's _human_, I realize, he's just _human_, not some super-being or hero or any stupid shit like that. He's me, but he's not me, and he's like an older brother who just let you in on some deep, dark secret.

There's a chink in the armor.

"Did…..Spock program it?"

He blinks, and tips his head like a curious puppy. I do _that_, too. Shit, this is weird. "Spock?" He echoes, glances at The Spocks who are sitting now, in a far corner, talking quietly with heads together. "No. Spock wasn't an instructor. Not that _I_ know of, anyway."

Well, this is one way to drag me out of a slump. But he's not going to let it last. I know him-erm, me-erm, _myself_-whatever. I know what he's doing. Easing into it, hoping I'll see exactly what I just did- that he's no more or less human then I am, and in no place to judge.

And yet-

A few people have said, in a few different ways, they're proud of what I've done. Of _me_. Pike said it, first, in so many words- and he was probably the only person who mattered to me for the longest time. Bones, too, oddly enough- when he growled and snarled about how he couldn't believe they'd given me permanent command of my _Enterprise_ but bumped my shoulder gently with his own and squeezed the back of my neck I'd known he'd been proud and pleased. And the Ambassador, with his gentle eyes….eyes that saw _me_ but saw _him_, too, this older Jim. (My mind is still reeling over that meld…..over what I saw, felt, _know_, now. But he knows the difference between this Jim, his Jim, and me. He's _proud of me_ for _me_. Not because he sees this Jim when he looks at me.) So many people, and yet when I look up at see his pride, hear _you've done right by him_, it's like hearing my father say it, like it _matters_, suddenly. This me, this hero, this golden, strong, proud man who I could have been, maybe _should_ have been (and shit, how much of a brain teaser is _that_?) is _proud_ of me.

And suddenly a place in me I didn't even know was afraid loosens and lets go. I haven't let Spock down. I haven't paled in comparison to the Jim he knew, _this_ me. I'm good enough, to him. And when the _hell_ did I start needing _approval_?

I shake my head hard, once.

"You said _remember him being_," I say, desperately trying to get my mind and my thoughts away from that dark, uncertain place. I wonder if this me has that place, dark and frightening, in the back of his mind. "So, what, is he dead here, too?"

A flinch, subtle, slight, and I resist the urge to slap my head into the wall. _Good job, Kirk, you can't even keep from offending __**yourself**__. _

But when he answers, his tone is level, his face calm. "For about two years now." He says quietly, lifting his tricorder again.

"The-Older Spock says he saw you get the captaincy." I don't want to call him _The Ambassador_. I'm being pretty lax about the whole _multiple timelines_ thing, but something just keeps me from saying that, some instinct that I don't really understand but have learned to listen to. "Our- I mean, your-dad."

"_Our_ father did." He puts gentle emphasis there, and I have to fight not to blush. I don't _blush_, damn it. He chuckles at some fond memory-a memory I wish I could share. But then his hand is on my shoulder, and he's talking in a low, rumbling baritone, and I realize abruptly that it's a story, _he's telling me a story_, and it's about my dad. No one has ever talked about my dad this way, like a person, like _George Kirk_, and I might not have the memories myself, but this is the next best thing.

And if he sees the tears track down my cheeks half-way through, he doesn't say a single word. But he gently puts my back to the room and acts as a human shield and doesn't once stop telling me about my-our- dad.

His voice is a low, soothing constant, and _now_ he reaches out to touch me; his hands land on my shoulders and he squeezes firmly. I can feel my hands shaking, my breath catching in my throat- I haven't cried like this for _years_, and I don't know if I've ever cried for my dad like this. It hurts. It's gentle, and soft, and it _hurts_ like nothing I've ever felt before, my throat working to stop the tears, my eyes _burning_.

When he finally stops speaking, he's kneeling beside me, still keeping me from view with his own body. I'm still shaking like a leaf caught in a storm, and he reaches out to pull me into a rough hug. It should feel strange. It should be _weird_, one of the strangest experiences of my life. It's not. He smells nothing like I do- he smells like sweat and metal and some spicy, tangy soap. He doesn't wear cologne, or isn't now, but his natural smell isn't unpleasant. There's something comforting in it, like he's _supposed_ to smell that way, the way Spock always smells exotic and sharp-probably because of his incense- and Uhura always smells like flowers, and Bones smells medicinal and minty, and Sulu like his plants, and Scotty smells like- well, the engines- and Chekov always just smells _clean_.

I inhale that scent a couple times, deep, steadying breaths, and at last push against him. He lets me go, holding me out at arm's length, and his golden eyes stare hard into my blue ones. "Good?" He asks, very low, understanding- well, duh, of course he understands-my need for privacy.

"Yeah." I say, just as low, nodding and palming away the streaks left by my tears.

"It's alright." He says quietly, and he doesn't mean my father's death, or anything I may or may not be feeling. He means that I'm crying.

"And," He goes on, "it's okay to let them see. Those two, anyway." He jerks his head at Bones and Spock. I hear the laugh jerk roughly from my throat. "I know. Bones has seen me at my worst." It feels okay, admitting that to myself. _Literally_, in this case. He smiles a little, head tilted in that curious puppy way we both have. "Spock…." I let my words falter off. Spock and I….we're getting there. I mean, we're supposed to have this epic friendship-the friendship that _this_ me and his Spock share-but we're not there yet. He's watching me, quietly, and when I don't go on prompts, "Spock?…."

"We don't know each other that well yet." I finish, glancing over at where both Spocks seem to be meditating, or-something. I'm amused at how calm everyone is over this- but with no obvious threat and no way out, I guess 'meet and greet' is the only thing to go right now.

It's strange- I have the memories of _this_ Jim Kirk in my head, vague and distant, from the meld with the Ambassador. I know how Spock and I are _supposed_ to be, how _this_ Jim and his Spock are. I know my Spock and I _can_ get to that point. But faced with it so up front and real, the difference is striking, and makes me a little bit- heh. Well, what the hell, I can admit it- a little bit _jealous_.

"Spock's a hard man to know." He agrees mildly enough, but there is a secretive smile on his lips. "Try chess." He adds dryly, and I blink.

Do _what_ now?

"Chess." I echo, hearing the flat tone of my own voice. "I haven't played chess a day in my life." Actually, Pike tried to teach it to me, my second year at the academy. Our chess lessons had been partly for fun and partly Pike's attempt at guidance sessions. I hadn't minded- I never minded talking to him. One of the few adults I felt I _could_ go to and not be treated like a post-pubescent troublemaking brat _or_ a tormented little boy to be pitied. With him, I'd never been George Kirk's Son, or The Academy Manwhore. I was just _Jim_, someone to be treated like an adult-if a young one- and a guy with a lot of potential. A friend. And, I think, sometimes, he thought of me as a son.

I could live with being all those things. There were precious few people who saw me as even a few of them. But our games and practices were cut short the same day I was accused of cheating on a certain afore mentioned test- and, damn it, if Spock can call it _implying_ then I can call it _improvising_- and Vulcan became ex-Vulcan.

Ohh, black humor.

Anyway, I didn't get much chance after _that_ to put those lessons to practical use. It isn't that I don't _like_ the idea of playing chess- I'm a natural, at least according to Pike, and I like strategy. But playing _chess_ against _Spock_ is not something I ever considered doing without thoughts of head-meets-wall very close behind. (And no, I'm _not_ sure which of us would be doing said banging, if I assumed Spock would lower himself to it.)

"So have him teach you." He shrugs, glancing over at our Spocks. "He's pretty patient, if you give him a chance and honestly want to learn something."

Paitent isn't a word I'd ever use to describe _my_ Spock, but then, something tells me _this_ Spock is very different in a lot of ways. "Someone's been teaching me already, I jut never got the chance to try it out." I say, still watching the Spocks. "You know, I-" I stop, unsure how much I should reveal. I mean, yeah, apparently crossing timelines doesn't cause some huge paradox that implodes the universe, but still, there is a part of me that wants to 'err on the side of caution'. "The other Spock, the _old_ Spock- no offense-he did this…._thing_ with me- he called a 'mind meld'."

And then I _know_ I should have kept my big fucking mouth shut, because _both_ Spock suddenly turn to pin me with two stares- one, on an older, more mild, neutral face, is startled and faintly amused. There's something that's almost, _not quiet, _a smile on the edges of his lips, and in his very human eyes. My Spock, though-he's _glaring_. And I shit you not, it is a predatory, _possessive_ glare, dark and deep and more intense then he has _ever_ looked at me since the _Narada_ situation.

And 'possessive' is the only way to put it.

I'm taken aback, but when James' hand lands on my shoulder, and his laughter is low and soft in my ear, something tells me _he _is not.


	4. Chapter 4

"So, a mind meld. Are you aware of just how personal that is?" He asks me softly, mouth still near my ear. His voice is very low, his eyes trained on the Spocks. Both McCoys are watching now, too, and I notice older Bones has now pushed off the wall from a similar poise as my Bones had only minutes before. He's approaching the two Spocks cautiously, as if preparing to step in if he needs to, but neither of them are paying him attention.

"Um," I say, because I have an _idea_, but no, I can't say as I know too damn much about any of it. His hand lifts off my shoulder, and he stands, resting a hand on the wall.

"_Very_ personal." He says mildly, meeting His Spock's eyes.

"A mind meld is an intimate act among Vulcans, but something I have performed many times with both the Captain and Doctor McCoy, as well as Uhura and Misters Chekov, Sulu, and Scott." His Spock says, very calmly- mine still looks like he wants to eat someone's face. "Granted, the length of time I have associated with them is much more extensive."

"He did it to get a lot of information sent to me in a very small amount of time." I explain. "No other reason." My Spock seems to relax marginally.

"Logical." Older Spock drawls, but his eyes keep flicking to _my_ Spock.

"_Anyway_," I go on, trying very hard to ignore the hard, deep stare still leveled at me. "He sent a few….I think accidental side-stories along with them. Memories of….the other Jim- you, I guess." I add, blushing a touch as I realize I'm _speaking_ to the other me. "Playing chess was one of those memories."

He chuckles, and now he's meeting his Spock's eyes. "I'm not completely surprised." He says. "So _that's_ how you knew me."

I feel the totally irrational urge to blush. "I didn't see you that well." I say, and _do not_ tell him how he was a golden, glowing figure wrapped in affection and sorrow. "But he told me some about you."

Older me- James- takes a slow, deep breath, and runs a hand through his hair. He lets it out just as slowly and closes his eyes. He finally looks at my Spock, and a firm, somewhat hollow smile is firmly in place. "Everything alright?" He asks calmly, and the direct address seems to snap my Spock out of it. He blinks, turning his head to pin James with a cool, distant stare.

"Fine, of course, James." He says calmly, and doesn't sound a single bit different then he ever has in the year I've known him as a first officer and coming-to-be-friend. But James' Spock is looking at him with an undeniable mixture of amusement and wariness and James himself keeps fighting back this crooked, stupid smile, like he's equal parts concerned and proud of himself. The hollow smile is gone utterly, and he pats my shoulder once.

"Of course." He says, glancing down at me. I shrug.

"Like I said, we're still pretty distant." I try, as older Spock's hand hovers over my Spock's shoulder- not _quiet_ touching, I've seen my Spock do that to others a few times- but his eyes remain heavy and dark on a spot between my shoulder blades even as he's lead away. It itches, and I squirm and try to be subtle about it.

"Doesn't seem distant, the way he's looking at you." He says with that crooked, impish grin on his face.

"He probably thinks it's shocking that he'd ever touch minds with a human." I snort, and am surprised by the dark, disappointed look James gives me. It's gone as soon as it came, though, and he's waiting expectantly for me to go on, eyebrow up.

"We're supposed to have-what _you_ have-" The words slip out without my permission. It seems like that happens a _lot_ around this man- I don't know if it's because it's _me_, or if it's just the aura he gives out. He seems _approachable,_ the kind of guy you can just _talk_ to. "But frankly, I mean, it's not-" I grope helplessly, gritting my teeth. The words are never _there_ when I really need them. I don't handle emotion well, or emotional situations. I'm a joker, a tension easer, when things go that road. I'm not _used_ to just blurting out things I feel. Bones is the only one I come close to doing that with, and now he's taken a few steps closer to us, concern and curiosity on his face.

"Let 'im be," Says older Bones quietly, and I don't think I was meant to hear it. "Here, I want to talk to you about-" And my Bones turns back, with a final, concerned glance back in my direction. I miss whatever it is they want to discuss.

"It's not…._what_?" James gets my attention again from where he's feeling his way along a new wall. His voice is mild and calm, but there is honest confusion and a little worry there. Just like The Ambassador, I think he's really very surprised at how things are different here. He doesn't have the same sense of concern or loneliness- but then, he's not lost, alone in a timeline where his world is gone and his friends don't, really, know him. He's still got his Spock and his Bones, and I know, I _know_, that no matter what happens next, so long as they are there, he can cope.

"Jim?" He gets my attention again, and I blink out of thought to look at him. He's got a disturbingly direct stare, and his eyes don't waver from mine. I've always been big on eye contact, and apparently this me is, too.

"It's not that I don't like him, or something. I do." I hear myself saying in a low mutter, and I can't pull my eyes from his, not if my life depended on it. "I mean, we go off to a rough start. There was-a lot of things that were happening. There were Vulcans being emotionally compromised and dog being warped into oblivion and just bad shit going down-" _Shut up, mouth, shut up-_

"Whoa, okay, slow down, for one." But he's not angry, he's laughing, gently. His hand is back on my shoulder, and I can't help but lean into the touch. Another thing we have in common in both timelines-we're tactile. I've always had a thing about touch. Frank-my stepfather- he was….he was pretty bad. Mom, of course, she loved him because he was pretty desperate for someone to love. I understand that, you know. I mean, I get how she turned a blind eye to the things he did to Sam and I. She really loved my dad- _my dad_, George Kirk- and when he died she sort of went _empty_, dead, and never did stop looking for a way to bring herself back to life. Sam and I, we weren't enough.

We were never good enough. And _I_…..I just reminded her of what she lost. Nothing more.

So gentle touch, _loving_ touch- I didn't grow up with a lot of it. Not until I discovered sex. Sex, you could touch, and be touched, and it didn't hurt unless you _wanted_ it to. And sometimes that felt good, too.

Then I met Bones, and found out that not all touch that was loving had to be sexual. It still took me a good month before I stopped flinching in reaction though. Over time, with Pike and McCoy and one person after one person, I learned to _crave_ that touch.

He seems to have the same urdge, same desire to reach out and make physical contact with someone as I do- but maybe not for the same reasons.

I highly doubt for the same reasons.

"You emotionally compromised Spock?" He's asking, and the laughter is still in his tone, under the concern.

"Well-yes." It comes out more broken then I'd like. Laughing is _not_ appropriate right now, but I'm having trouble swallowing it down. There's too much understanding, too much good humor in his eyes. "I was out of options, and the A-_old_ Spock, the other Spock we told you is here, he's sort of the one who told me I should."

He's laughing now, a low, quiet, rumbling chuckle. "He's had experience." He manages, still laughing softly, a disbelieving sort of laugh.

"Yeah, well, then you think he'd mention _oh, yeah, by the way, by 'emotionally compromise' I mean, 'pick on him until he tries to snap your neck. Because he can, you know, with one hand tied behind his back'." _

"You…." A snort, a vain attempt to hide laughter. "You weren't aware of a Vulcan's superior strength? Even a half-Vulcan is easily two or three times stronger then a human."

"Oh, I was _aware_ of it," I drawl, and my lips are twitching now, too, even if it _wasn't funny_, damn it. "It's a little different in practice."

"I know." He drawls. "I believe that your _old Spock_ probably took the idea from the number of times similar situations have cropped up between us." He's smirking. "Although I managed to avoid being throttled-"

"_Lucky you_."

"Maybe. Didn't say I avoided being _hit_." He grins crookedly at me. "Dogs being warped into oblivion?" He adds, subject getting back on track. I grin myself now.

"Admiral Archer's beagle. Scotty tried to send it farther then was…._advisable_."

"Sounds like Scotty." He manages with a snicker. "What happened to it?"

"We, um, don't exactly _know_." I rub the back of my neck. "It hasn't really reappeared, yet."

"It hasn't-" He runs a hand over his face. "Oh, that poor _dog_." He's trying very hard not to laugh again.

"Poor _Scotty_. Archer stationed him on Delta Vega as punishment."

That does it- he breaks, laughing helplessly. I watch him with a goofy grin, absurdly pleased with myself. When he brings his laughter under control and straightens up, I'm grinning just as widely. His hand lands at the nape of my neck. "Spock and I didn't just fall into a friendship, you know." He tells me gently, amusement still dancing in his eyes. "We had to _work_ for it. _I_ had to work for it," He adds, lower, though maybe Spock can still hear him. Vulcan hearing is incredibly sharp. "Still am. So is he, so is Bones. Spock's been serving under Pike for _years_, and Pike was an incredible man and an incredible captain but about as different from me as night from day." _Was_. He said _was_. Is Pike dead, in his timeline? Now's not the time to worry about it. Still, it niggles at the back of my mind. "He wasn't even first officer, when I became captain. Science officer only. First officer-" He stops, looks away as his smile fades away to nothing. "First officer died not even a full year in." He blinks, and pulls himself back from a dark, deep place I know well and never expected to see, not on him. I know that place, of guilt and self-doubt and recriminations and fear. It's like the cliff I drove that car off of so long ago- steep and so vast. I didn't think this me would know that place, but he does. Oh, he does, and it shadows his golden eyes and turns them nearly black.

"What was his name?" I ask gently, and one corner of his lips tip up.

"Gary." Is the reply. "Gary Mitchell. A good friend; one of my best." He takes a breath and I watch him push it away, whip it away with savage forcefulness.

"My point is," He says, straightening up and using sheer willpower to hold back that black edge. "that Spock and I got along pretty well, and I felt…._something_ with him, some _connection_ with him. Like we _could_ be friends, if we tried, if we took the chance for it. So I asked him to take the position, and he accepted, to my surprise. And I _was_ surprised, Jim." He chuckles. "Friends is putting it mildly." His voice and eyes soften, and he leans on the wall. "You can't use that word for what Bones, Spock and I have. It's _more_. Deeper. But it's taken _time_."

"It's been a year." It feels lame, the moment it hits the air. He laughs.

"And did you _see_ the look he gave you when you brought up the mind-meld?" He raises a brow. He has a point. But I always knew Spock was my friend. I felt it, too, that singing _connection_ older me was just referring to, the thrumming _rightness_ of having Spock-and-Bones at my flank. We're not whole, without him. I know that, I'm _aware_ of that, both from the Ambassador's and my own senses, but I don't know what to _do_ about it. It's like an itch you can't reach, just under the skin. It's irritating and constant.

"We're _friends_," I protest, "we're just not- I don't know-"

"Brothers." The word is soft, and gentle, slipping from his lips like a warm embrace. "_Yet_."

And I have to smile. _Yet _has never sounded more like….a promise.


	5. Chapter 5

I'm glad Jim's so okay with this situation, because _I_ am not.

We don't know where we are, we don't know what our captors _want_, we're defenseless and trapped, and _oh yes_, standing five feet away from me is a _younger me_.

Well, almost. His eyes aren't the right color. I have blue eyes. His are kind of gold-brown- not hazel, exactly, but too light to be chocolate, too. There are other differences- he's huskier, sports stubble. He has my lines in his face, but the face itself is younger. There's something……rough….about him, something very raw.

But he's _me_; there's no way to deny he's me, even if there was no younger Jim and Spock there, too.

Speak of the devils-the Jims have been talking quietly for some time now. (_The Jims_-this is, what, the second time I've had leave to use that term? I must say, this is a preferable situation to our last situation, but that doesn't make it any less disorienting and vaguely absurd. I half want to laugh.) My younger counterpart and I are in the opposite corner, running tricorders over the walls and hands over the floors, looking for some-any- hidden way out of here. It's awkward. Younger me seems more comfortable then I feel, and is, more or less, ignoring me in favor of keeping half an eye on his friends. Our friends. It's the same thing I would be doing; the same thing I _keep_ doing, glancing over to them.

Every so often he sends a glance at me, this considering, steady-eyed gaze that's not at all unnerved or frightened- I only see concern and apprehension, and without doubt my own annoyance and sense of resignment.

"It's Jim," He says, when he catches me looking at him. "By this point, I've come to accept things like this _happen_ around Jim."

I smirk. "That's one thing that remains a constant in any timeline, hm?" I quip, and he grins a little. It's unsteady, and for the first time I see he _is_ unsure.

Apparently another constant is an outer shell covered in thorns to protect everything close to the vest. There is fear in those brown eyes, but his hands are- of course- steady on the tricorder.

It takes a lot more then this to make a _doctor's_ hands shake. And from the fact that he's still dressed in what passes for Starfleet's scrubs, he _is_ one. I assume Jim- this Jim, _his_ Jim-is about ten years younger then my own, which puts, by my best guess, this McCoy about the same age difference from me, but still a good few years older then his Jim. Still, it's jarring to see myself so young in such a heavy position-just like it's jarring to see a young Jim very obviously still the captain.

"What, Jim managing to find the _weirdest_ brands of trouble? Yes." He replies, and I'm relived to see some of the fear back off in his eyes. His voice is deeper then mine, by just a touch. "Sometimes I wonder if anyone _but_ Jim Kirk could get us into he situations he manages to."

I snort. It's so painfully true- Jim _does_ things, and he doesn't always _think_ about them first. He does what he does because it's right, more often then not, but the repercussions are usually pretty damn extreme. Worst case scenario, we end up with him in my sickbay, insides on the outside or lifeblood leaking slowly away, with us frantically trying to put him back together. And sometimes, it's just _funny_; room such as The Tribble Incident, _anything_ having to do with Harry Mudd, situations like the one with Trelane, or The Janice Lester Incident. (Which wasn't _funny_ while it was happening, but when your best friend winds up temporarily trapped in the body of a woman (and, at one point, holding the hand of his first officer) once the situation is resolved it starts being funny in hindsight.)

But it's almost _always_ strange.

"Probably not." I reply, giving up on finding a false wall and slumping against it instead. "Luckily for him, he's got us." I add, watching James tuck his arm around Jim as they both laugh over something. It's good to see him laugh, no matter how strange the situation is.

"_Now_ you sound like him." He tells me dryly. "Is that due to prolonged exposure?"

I snort. "You would know, wouldn't you?" I ask. "How long've you known him?"

"Three years in the academy together, plus one now, on the _Enterprise_." He says, and I'm actually sort of surprised. I hadn't considered a _me_ that hadn't known Jim for years before serving together, and one that had been at the academy with him. I hadn't gone into Starfleet until roughly a year after Jim, and had known him for a few years before, and caught up with him again only after he'd gotten out and asked me to be CMO on _Enterprise_.

"You've only known him five years?" I querry.

"_Only_? Five years of knowing Jim is a _lifetime_ of knowing someone else, isn't it?" But the words are fond and gentle, and I recognize the smile he's wearing. It's the smile of a brother or a father, a sharp contrast to the edgy bite of his words. It's a smile I've felt on my own lips, one that I never thought I'd wear since I lost Joanna and Jocelyn. But Jim- Jim's the kind of person who just _gets under_ everything, maneuvers deftly past the thickest of barriers with ease- _Spock_ is walking proof of that. He wormed his way under my skin within weeks of knowing him and slowly, before Spock even realized it was happening, wiggled his way into our half-breed's heart.

And this me, young me, is completely right. Five years of _Jim_ is exhausting…. traumatic….exhilarating,…._crazy_.

"Isn't it." I agree, laughing softly.

"Can't say I'd change it, though." The soft smile is in place firmly. "Didn't think-" He stops, presses his lips thin.

"What?" I grin a little at him. "You're not embarrassed to tell _yourself_, are ya?" I tease gently, and I feel a little proud when he chuckles.

"No." He says, after a moment, still half smiling. "No, I'm not. I just-uh-I never thought I'd _say_ that."

"What, that you wouldn't change anything?" I raise a brow. "Me neither. 'Cause me? I'd change some things."

"No, I mean, Jim things." He snorts a laugh, bitter and raw. "There's a few pre-Jim things I'd change." He crouches at my feet, and within seconds has let himself sprawl on his rear, head back against the all-too solid wall and eyes shut.

There's a momentary surge of guilt. Yeah, Jocelyn was a horrible _bitch_ who never, really, loved anyone but herself- yes, that entire stretch of my life is something I could have done without. But if I'd never married Jocelyn, there'd never be a _Joanna_, and while not being able to see my little girl often is hard and painful, I wouldn't give her up for all the second chances in the world. "Really?" I ask, and raise a brow at him, and see the same flash of guilt pass over his own face.

"Some things." He lets out a gentle breath. "What, not you?"

I shrug. "I got Joanna out of it." I say. "And these lunatics make up for the family part, I guess."

He snorts, but drops his head back against the wall and grins a lop-sided agreement. "I can't wait for the chance to introduce 'em. Jim and Joanna, I mean. And even Spock, if he'll lower himself to the level of us mere, lesser humans."

I bark a laugh before I can help it. Oh dear _Lord_, if there was any doubt in my mind it's gone now.

"What?" He's asking, grin still half on his lips, eyes slanted.

"Nothing." I manage. "It's just that if anything proves some things don't change, _that_ was it." I manage to stop laughing and drop to my butt beside him, grunting slightly. Heaven help me, I'm getting too old for this. "Spock's like pistachio ice cream. He's gotta grow on you a while 'fore you start maybe liking him a little."

"No, Spock's like pistachio ice cream because he's green, cold, and bitter." His lips twist, and maybe it's just because- well, this is _me_ speaking- but I can hear the teasing note under the prickling words. I snicker again, and his smile softens. "But yeah, maybe I get what you mean."

"I think you do. How's he doin', after Vulcan-" I motion, somewhat helplessly. "Went poof?"

"Poof." He gives a slight snort at that. "More appropriate then you realize." But the humor is bitter and black, and nothing about the situation is _funny_, really. Billions of lives, lost. Hundreds more left without loved ones, without a home, lost and unable to possibly know if their attempts to start over will work. Humor is one way of handling it. I mostly get it from Jim- he has a very bad habit of rubbing off on people.

"He's…..I don't know. I mean, he's _Spock_." He half-shrugs, frustration and concern written on his face plain as day. "Even if he wasn't, he wouldn't say."

I frown. My Spock is stubborn, but he trusts me enough to come to me if he needs to. He clams up when something's really wrong but if I tug on his leash hard enough he'll eventually give in. He _trusts_ me- even if, sometimes, a little uncertainly.

"If he needs to, he will." I say, slowly, unsure I'm even being truthful. This isn't _my_ Spock. And when did I start thinking of him as _mine_? Tha's a term that's used pretty exclusively for Jim, with me, now. That I didn't even realize I was using possessive terminology with Spock is a little worrying, and at the same time, oddly comforting.

Young me shrugs again. "He's not even talking to Uhura. I asked her. He's not okay- she says he's not okay- but he won't _talk_ to her."

…..Come again?

"Why," I ask, slowly, "would Spock be talking, privately, about personal matters, to _lieutenant Uhura_?"

He opens his eyes and stares at me for a long moment. "Why not?" He asks. "I mean, sure, he's half Vulcan, but she's his….his _partner_, right? You talk to your mate about things like that."

I choke on my own laughter, this time.

"Nyota….and _Spock_?" I manage to gasp out. He's staring at me, torn between laughing himself and darting glances of concern at his own Spock, who seems thoroughly wrapped up with my Spock and not paying my whooping laughter any more never mind then a cat. My own Spock sends me a mildly reproving glance for my volume, but he seems amused, himself, so there. I resist the urge to stick out my tongue.

"What, is that wrong, or something?"

I shake my hand in the air, bringing my laughter down slowly and trying to catch my breath. "Not- not _wrong_, exactly." I manage. "Just- I never pictured _him_ with- with _anyone_, let alone _Uhura_." She's a passionate, emotional creature, Uhura, strong and stubborn, and, last time I checked, with an incredible and unbeknownst to her very _requited_ crush on one Mr. Montgomery Scott. Not that she'll ever say a damn word, because she's serious and committed and he's as much of a womanizer as Jim is. She's afraid he wouldn't be a one-woman man (and she's wrong, you know) and that he doesn't feel the same way. (Now if only _he_ talked _to_ her the way he talks _about_ her to _me_, she might feel differently on that one.)

"Yeah, well, there it is." He shrugs again, motioning helplessly at Spock. Both Spocks. "I'm guessing yours isn't, then?"

I snort. "_Mine_ wouldn't know a sex drive if it up and bit him on the pointy ear." I mutter. "'Cept for once, 've never even seen him look twice at a woman, no matter how they come at 'im, unless he's manipulating 'em."

"Well, this one does." He mutters. "To the amazement of all and sundry, especially Jim." I snort again. "The woman who got away got caught in a Vulcan butterfly net." He goes on dryly, "But said Vulcan still hasn't given her any more insight into how he's holding up then the rest of us." He sobers as we get back on topic, and so do I. "He's acting-normal, I guess, for him- but _too_ normal. Aside from blowin' up once at Jim-and that was Jim's own fucking fault-he hasn't even mourned for her, I don't think. And that wasn't mourning."

I decide to skip the story-I can probably get details from my own Jim later. "Vulcans mourn differently then humans." I say slowly. "According to him-"

"I don't care, and don't you pretend like you do, either." He cuts me off sharply, narrowing his eyes. "I know you better then that. He's keeping it all corked up, not _working through it_ or meditating through it or whatever it is Vulcans _do_."

I bite my lower lip. My Spock- ours- doesn't bottle things up. He _does _work through them. A Vulcan keeping things corked up inside is a Vulcan walking very dangerous ground.

Suddenly, I'm very much more worried then I had been.


	6. Chapter 6

"I've seen Spock repressing." My voice is soft, meant only for his ears-it's hard to keep anything private from Vulcans. "It doesn't last long and it ends ugly when he does it. There's a difference between _control_ and _repressed_, and while I think both are _stupid_, I'd rather see the former. Control can be necessary, even for a human."

Young me nods slowly, eyes closed again as he worries at his lower lip. That's a Jim-thing, the lip chewing. I managed to avoid picking up on most of his habits, but apparently young me didn't escape so unscathed. "From what little Uhura's said, he's…._unbalanced_, somehow. Like he's trying to be okay, but something keeps knocking of his equilibrium."

I sigh, running my hand over my arm. Spock, like all Vulcans, relies on mediation to keep himself centered. It's something I've learned, over the last couple of years. I don't know how Vulcans work, how they operate, not _really_. I know all the physical aspects of it, of course, I'm a doctor, and what I didn't learn from Starfleet I'm finding out through trial and error with Spock himself. But the internal workings, what makes 'em tick- that's largely a mystery.

I can't say I've ever seen him _unbalanced_, exactly. Except for the Pon Farr time, and then it was _really_ obvious something was wrong, there was no subtlety to it. However, knowing what I do about the meditation-

"Has he been meditating?" I ask, and I feel how thick and tentative the words sound on the air. I'm not sure what I'll even say if the answer is _no_, or why I assume this me will even _know_. I'm not surprised by the raised eyebrow and side-long look my question earns me- but I'm also not surprised by the way it melts into concerned consideration.

"I'll ask her." He says slowly, and I hear the familiar tone of _doctor's voice_ sliding into his baritone. I shake my head, remembering something Mrs. Sarak-Amanda- had mentioned.

"According to Spock's mother-" I stop, wincing slightly in eerie unison with my younger self at the mention of her. "-according to her, their meditation is very personal, private. I don't know how willing he'd be to discuss it, even with Uhura."

He shrugs, chewing his lip once more. I resist the urge to stop him, the way I would Jim. "You think because he might not be mediating, he's-off center?" He asks, very slowly. "I don't know why I didn't-"

"It's Spock." I hurry to assure, watching guilt crease his face. I know him- _myself_-well enough to know how quickly he's going to start blaming himself. "I only know because I've had longer around him, Leonard." Well _that_ feels strange to do. "And my Spock is a little easier to read, I think. Calmer," I say, without really meaning for it to slip out. Beside me, it's his turn to snort a laugh.

"He is a little high strung." He manages softly. "Just about as bad as the rest of us."

"That'll-no, never mind, that won't change." I chuckle, tipping my head back.

"_Reassuring_, thanks." He mutters, mimicking the pose.

"You'll learn to love it." I can't believe I'm saying it, out loud, plain as day. But it's _true_, isn't it? Over the years I've known Jim, I've found myself closer to very few people. My brother, my best friend- and the rest of the _Enterprise_, this crew, my crew as much as Jim's. Uhura, and Scotty, Sulu and Chekov- my family. And Spock, green-blooded half breed he is; annoying, obnoxious, antagonistic, passive aggressive little _shit_ he is- he's my younger brother, too. He _needs_ us, Jim and I- and Jim needs Spock and I, and I need them, and damn if we're not more then any normal crew. Damn us all if we're not becoming closer then any blood could ever make us.

And the craziness, the insanity, the pain and the never-ending turmoil-the weeks of boredom, of private dramas on the ship itself, of sickness and injury-the days I'm sure we're all going to die. The days someone _does_. The times I can't save someone-the times I do. It's all so _utterly worth it_. "You'll learn to love _them_."

He smirks a little, tiredly. "I-" He shrugs. "Maybe." Is all he says, but I _know_ that grin. It fades away after a moment, and he sighs. "I hope you're right about Spock."

I shrug. "I don't know." I say, honestly. "It's a shot in the dark, but it's what I'd take into consideration with _our_ Spock."

"No. No, I mean about being able to understand him."

"I never said _that_, exactly." I drawl. I _don't_ completely understand Spock. I have a few more years to try and do that in, luckily. (Or unluckily, depending on how this goes.) He's a walking contradiction, and while Jim seems to have no trouble reading or understanding him at all, it's not quite as easy to me. Spock and I are two polar opposites; we're brothers and close friends, but that doesn't mean we're utterly in tune with each other constantly. In fact, we're usually at each other's throats, and it's not always bickering good naturedly. "But it gets easier. And you both care about Jim, which kind of-cements things."

"_Care about_? Look, less then a full year ago Spock _hated_ Jim."

Well, that's a new one. I raise an eyebrow that would do any universe's Spock proud. "Hated him?"

"This Spock created the _Kobyashi Maru_ test, and Jim cheated it." He explains, and I feel the laughter jarr in my throat. Seems some things really never _do_ change. He doesn't see my amused annoyance, though, tracing his fingers along the white, slick floor idely. "And there was a lot of turmoil after that, with Vulcan gone and the Romulans threatening Earth, and Spock and Jim butted heads like mad after Pike was taken. Spock was already walking a pretty thin line and Jim knows how to push buttons to get _just_ the reaction he wants."

"In other words, he's good at pissing people off." I mutter. He barks a laugh.

"Pretty much." But that's not entirely fair- Jim's good at manipulating people _period. _Laughter, excitement, love, lust, anger, ear- he knows just how to go for and elect the emotion he needs to in people.

But he's _damn good_ at pissing people off.

"The end result was Spock wound up blowing up on the bridge and attacking Jim, who'd provoked him into it on purpose." He props his head on a hand. "Spock wasn't his biggest fan. Hell, Jim wasn't _Spock's_. They only started to get along near the end of that whole fiasco, and-" He shrugs, looking up at the pair of our friends. "And I don't know now."

I nod, slowly, feeling his eyes on me, feeling him waiting for me to say something, _do_ something. I'm older, more experienced, I've known these people longer, he's expecting me to know.

I don't know if I do.

"It's tense." He goes on, slowly. "Spock's not okay. Jim wasn't okay before, and _now_ he's conflicted. Uhura wants to fix Spock and she's upset that she's not enough. And I- I-"

"Needed an ear?" I insert gently, and he looks down, flushing. I chuckle. "I understand." I say, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. And I _do;_ when you're the person everyone comes to, who do you_ turn_ to? There are some things I can't tell Jim, or Spock-things that I can't unburden myself of. A lot of it I can-Jim and I turn to each other, and Spock has come to both of us, on occasion- I _know_ Jim goes to him. Even I've used his shoulder, now and again. But not all, not for me.

And I imagine it's worse for this young-me.

He shrugs. I sigh. I can practically _see_ the walls rebuilding. "Anyway." He says. "It's tense. Everyone's trying to feel their way into their position and station, and around each other and relationships-"

"Hey," I say, because it's just crossing the line into a little _too_ strange to call myself by my own name. Or-oh, damn it, no way I phrase that is gonna make it make more sense. "Look, when Jim first took over _Enterprise_, he was replacing Pike, who'd captained her for _years_. Most of the crew was _his_. A lot of 'em still are. He didn't know anyone-until I came aboard-but his first officer, a young man name of Gary Mitchell. He was younger then most of the crew, and the youngest captain they'd ever seen. You think it wasn't _tense_? It took _months_ before we all sorted ourselves out. I came on as CMO, and that was _another_ few weeks of chaos as everyone got used to me. And when Spock took over both science officer _and_ first officer position, after Mitchell died, there was _more_ rearranging. And so on and forth as people move up and down in ranks, transfer on and off the ship- only recently has everything and everyone gotten really, truly comfortable with each other and their positions."

He's listening, watching me intently, hope and understanding in his dark eyes. "It doesn't happen overnight." I finish, softly, closing my own eyes. "But it'll happen, given a few years."

He barks a laugh, the sound pretty much lacking in all humor but tinged with sarcastic good nature. "A few years, hu?" He laughs out softly. "Is that all."

"That's all." I grin down at him, and he grins back. "What do you mean, about Jim-uh, your Jim-being conflicted?"

"….Your Jim's father's still alive, isn't he?" He asks mildly enough.

"He was until about two years ago." I say. "Died just after Jim took command." It was rough, too. Jim'd wound up in my quarters drunk half out of his head and beating himself up for not being able to be with his mother, for not having had more time with his father near the end.

"But he was there, wasn't he? For Jim's being a kid."

"Jim was close to his parents, yes." I say, slowly, hating where I sense this is going. "Especially his father. According to him, he and Sam adored the man."

"Yeah, well, my Jim's is dead. Died the day Jim was born." He draws his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them. His eyes are locked on the Jims, but at the same time far away, distracted and concerned. "The Romulans that destroyed Vulcan attacked the _U.S.S Kelvin_, the ship Jim's parents were serving on. He's known all over the world and through a lot of the galaxy for that alone; George Kirk's boy, the child of the _Kelvin_. Most of the crew survived because of Jim's dad, including Jim and his mom. He was captain for all of ten minutes, and died a hero. But that doesn't matter, not to Jim. What matters to Jim is that when his dad died, so did part of his mom-and he's had about a dozen stepfathers. And from what I can get out of him- and what I've seen from his file-he's been abused just about every way you can be."

I close my eyes, running a hand over my mouth. Damn. I knew that's what was coming. _Damn_. Jim.

Aw, _Jim_.

I look at the Jims, mine and this younger version, who are huddled in the far corner with heads together like a pair of conspirators, twin impish grins spreading on their faces. My Jim-James- is gesturing wildly as he explains something, and his younger version nods eagerly, his electric blue eyes dancing, his wide smile making him look years younger. Like my own James, this Jim has life and energy, a boyish charm and playfulness and just _spirit_ that is indomitable. You can see it, _feel it_.

How anyone could hurt that, could go out of their way to crush something so rare- no wonder other races look down on us half the time.

"When enough people tell you enough times you're worthless, you start to believe it." My younger self goes on softly, to my left, and his voice _aches_ for his friend. "I try-we all do, everyone who knows-but it's five years versus a lifetime."

Jim-James- _my_ James- has problems, same as anyone else. He doubts himself occasionally, Tarsus left a dozen scars on him, he falls in love too easily, he's lonely and hurting and there's a very dark place in him that I've only seen on occasion. I don't know what put it there or everything that lurks in it's shadows, but I do know one thing.

Never in all the time have I known him has self-confidence been a real problem for Jim. No more then anyone else, that is. He's been surrounded by more people who support and love him then people who don't, and both he and Sam had grown up in what was- more or less- an ideal environment. Not perfect, of course, but from what I understand it was _good. _

If Jim grew up-and still has- that love and support, and he still has the dark, broken place inside him, I can only imagine what a Jim who's suffered is like.

And so help me, I don't know what to do, or say.


	7. Chapter 7

If this entire situation hadn't already pushed so far past anything like _sane_ that my mind was slightly numb to it all, I think I'd be embarrassed we're even having this conversation.

This me- this older version of myself- is staring at the Jims with a far-away, pained expression. He wants to help but doesn't know how-I understand the feeling. I've understood it since we began our official five year mission and the adrenaline and rush wore off from the Nero Thing. I want to help Spock, but I don't know what to do. I want to help Jim, but nothing I do seems to be enough. I tried to help Pike, and he stil wound up wheel-chair bound.

Some doctor I am. Can fix everything but what's _really_ important, what matters. Couldn't fix my marriage or my father, or Pike. Couldn't save the dozens of lives lost in the multiple battles with the _Narada_, couldn't save the survivors of Vulcan.

Can't do anything for Jim.

I jerk my head out of the clouds- or maybe, more appropriately, out of the dark side street they'd wandered down-and take a moment to study my counterpart.

His eyes are blue, but not blue like Jim's. His are sharp, electric. This me, his are close in color to the sky; the sky at dusk or dawn, very clear, very bright. His face is weathered like mine is getting, that's not surprising- worry and stress lines around his eyes, laugh lines around his mouth. His hair is a lighter brown, with touches of gray to it. He's skinner then me, and I'm not exactly huge- lankier. His voice is just a pitch or two higher then my own deep one.

He's not rough, like me. There's no thin layer of stubble on his chin. None on his upper lip. His hair is neater. He's just more pressed, _neater_ then I usually manage to be.

And that's _saying_ something.

Suddenly he uncurls, gently, stretching his legs out in front of him. He brings his eyes to bear on mine, moving them at last from the Jims. "He's as good at hiding as Spock, isn't he?" He asks simply, and I grin lopsidedly.

"In his own way." I say. Jim-or at last _this_ Jim, mine- pretends to be an air headed puppy dog, a stupid post-pubescent frat boy with a sexual record as long as his juvie one and_ nothing more_. It's not true.

Okay, so yeah, okay, maybe he _is_ a juvenile sex addict with a juvie list into oblivion and the attitude of a suicidal dare-devil, but he's more then that, too. He's smart-_nerd_ smart, his IQ is off the friggin' scale, not that he'll ever let on. He's gentle, and loyal; he's a sex addict because he craves affection and attention, not because he's a whore-he's starved for it. He'll do anything for his crew, sacrifice himself for his friends. And he swaggers around like a peacock, strutting like he's cocky and confident and self-assured, but Jim has _no_ self esteem when it comes to anything important.

Too few people know it. Know what he's _hiding_ under that shaggy blonde head.

"Mine, too." It's as if he's reading my mind. Hell, he doesn't _have to_. He's _me_- technically, he's me. He knows me as well as I do, maybe better. He knows what the look on my face means. He understands every twitch, every word, and it's actually a little scary. More scary then _meeting myself_ is realizing that you are looking at the one person in the universe _you can't lie to_. "I don't suppose in the same way as yours, but mine too."

"_He's_ got a reason to hide?" The moment the words are out I want to snatch them back. Stupid, McCoy, judging someone on appearances. You _know_ better then that. But it's hard not to, looking at the version of Jim that _mine_ wants so desperately to be. Has always wanted to be. Thinks he'll never live up to.

He's not tall, but broad, and there's a tan to his skin that belies the fact that he's spent years mostly on a starship in space. His hair is smooth, and deep blond, and he's broad and strong with chiseled facial features. He's got the same mischievous glint in his eyes- which are golden-hazel like wolf's eyes, not electrifyingly blue-and the same easy, open smile and face, but there's something wise and experienced behind it. He carries himself like a solider, has an air of command that's just _natural. _

Jim wants that so badly he can taste it.

It's hard to imagine this strong, golden man lacking for anything. But knowing _my_ Jim, who comes off as a California beach-boy and is anything but, should have taught me not to underestimate people. Least of _any_ version of Jim.

His sharp eyed, scowling stare tells me he knows _exactly_ everything I've just berated myself with, and he knows I do, too.

"He's the youngest captain Starfleet currently has, assigned to it's _flagship_." He says dryly. "And even if he wasn't, there's plenty-" He falters, closing his mouth a moment before going on. "plenty he's got to hide."

I blink, startled by the sudden sadness that's in his eyes. "Like what?" I push. It's not like I'm some stranger he's breaking confidentiality with. I told him about _my_ Jim-I want to know this one. I don't know why. Maybe to make him more human, somehow, more real.

Maybe so I can remind _my_ Jim that his counterpart is human.

He's still staring at the floor. "It's not my place-"

"Bull." I snarl, and he doesn't look in the least startled- his lips just curl into a slow, fond smirk. "My _ass_, Leonard, I'm _you_." Damn, that's so _weird_.

"But _that_ Jim is not _your_ Jim, and _you_ technically _aren't_ me." He says slowly, looking up at last.

"If the world isn't suffering because we've all met, it's not going to end because I know something moderately personal about an alternate reality Kirk. We _all_ know something personal about our alternate selves. I just told you this Jim was fucking _abused_."

He flinches, a little, and looks away again. "I don't think your Jim experienced this." He says, haltingly. "I don't even know if it _happened_, in your timeline. But about twenty years ago, on a colony called Tarsus, there was a crisis that wiped out most of their food. A virus."

I frown. No, Jim _hadn't_ been on Tarsus, not as far as I knew, anyway-and there wasn't anything to suggest it was being kept from me-but I _do_ know what this me's talking about. I heard about it, after it happened. _While_ it was happening, actually. "I know what happened on Tarsus," I snap, impatiently, and he sends me a significant glance. It takes me a thick-headed moment to full _get it_, and when I do, it hits me hard in the face.

"He was-_Jim_ was-"

"One of the few survivors. Yeah."

I suck in a breath. "Damn." I say. "That would be a reason."

"One of a couple." He says quietly. "Just because he hasn't been through as much doesn't mean everything's been sunshine and roses, ki-" And he just _stops_, bites his tongue _hard_ and damn near chokes before he can call me 'kid'. I snort a laugh, and he sends me a half-hearted glare.

"Sorry." I say, before he can try to correct himself. "I mean, I should know better- Jim, _any_ Jim, is always more then you expect."

He nods. "Getting people to underestimate him is a pretty big Jim tactic."

"Like a puppy 'till you piss 'im off." I mutter, and it's his turn to laugh.

"You'll be alright." He tells me, voice gentle as my own so rarely is. I only ever get that tone when I'm speaking to Joanna, or when someone's really hurt. "I know you." He winks, and I find myself grinning despite everything.

"Yeah?" I ask, and he nods.

"Yeah." He says. "You'll all be alright."

"Wish I could have your confidence." I snort. "With Jim constantly throwing himself into the fire, Spock's keeping his grief and anger so close to the vest it's starting to wear, every aggressive alien in the galaxy wanting us-"

"-your insane, stubborn crew, all the insane, crazy situations. I know. But you'll handle it. You're the CMO." He says, and his grin is lopsided and fond. "Like it or not, you are."

I chuckle. "I never thought-" I pause, then decide _to hell with it_ and keep speaking. It's like I said to him; he's _me_. Keeping secrets from myself- even an older, alternate version of myself-probably doesn't say much about my mental health.

"I never thought I'd be here." I go on, as he switches his gaze to watch me. "I hate space. I hate space _travel_. I'm fucking _aviophobic_." I laugh helplessly, running a hand down my face. "It's only because of _Jocelyn_ that I even came here. I didn't think I'd be on-on a _Starship_, watching James-Fucking-Issue-Ridden-Fucking-_Kirk_ captain a _flagship_." I only spout curses like that when I'm drunk, usually. I flush deeply when I realize what I've said and just how I said it, but he's only half laughing, still watching me.

"There are two good things that came out of Jos." he says, "One is Joanna. The other is this. Do you not think he's ready for this?" He asks, surprising me by his insightfulness. And then guilt hits, hard and raw. Because it's _true_, if I'm being perfectly honest with myself. Jim hasn't had the field experience he _needs_, he was supposed to _get_, working his way up through the ranks on a ship-or ships. _None_ of us have the field experience we should- we were hurled, rather violently, into our positions, and Starfleet, in it's infinite wisdom (and desperation) kept us there.

"No. I don't think he's ready for this. I never _did_." I hear myself say, and to my sick, gut-twisting, _oh dear Lord __**now**__ he can suddenly hear me_ horror, Jim's- _my_ Jim's-head snaps up. His blue eyes are wide, and _hurt_, for just one moment, so hurt that it's like stabbing myself in the stomach with a dull knife.

Beside me, older me flinches a little. "Now, Jim," He starts, and damn if I haven't heard that _same tone_ out of my own mouth a thousand and one times. _His_ Jim looks up, hand over his face and hazel eyes peeking out from between his fingers.

"_Captain_ to you." My Jim growls, leveling a finger at older-me. "What the _fuck_, Bones?"

A least I'm still _Bones_. Both my older self and I share a glance of relief.

"Oh, come on, Jim." I say, keeping my own voice low and calm. "You know what I mean. None of us were ready for this. None of us were anywhere near prepared."

"Doing a pretty good job for 'not being ready for this'." He snarls. Defensive, edgy, too many people kicking him too long in his earlier years, so quick to jump, to bite, _get them before they get me_. Damn it, damn damn _damn_ it all to hell. I am _not_ supposed to be one of those people.

"I never said we weren't." I say, lifting my hands, placating. "Jim, you've done an impressive job as Captain. They made the right choice. But I'm just saying we were supposed to have more field experience, more years under us, before we wound up where we are. Well, not _here_, but-you know what I _mean_."

"Indeed." That's our Spock, pushing himself into a stand beside his older counterpart, who is watching with clinical interest. "I agree-somewhat surprisingly- with doctor McCoy, Captain."

Older Jim makes a noise suspiciously like a smothered laugh. Glad _someone_ is amused by all this, because with Jim glaring death at me and Spock _agreeing_ with me, I'm a little worried.

"Easy, now." That's older Jim, his hand landing gently on my Jim's shoulder. He tenses, but doesn't pull away. Older Jim is smirking, but at least he's uncovered his face. The older me is also on his feet, now, frowning, having wordless communication with _his_ Spock. I can't help but wonder if we will ever get to that point.

Or if Jim will end the choice for me now. From the look he's giving me, I'm concerned he just might.

"They're right." Older Jim goes on, slowly. "And you know it, now stand down."

He blinks, the tension eases from his body, and his lips twist wryly.

"Sorry, Bones." He mutters, and to my surprise- and amusement- my older self _mouths the words with him_.

"Guess I'm just a little-"

"Twitchy?" My older self smirks. "Understandable."

"You know I'd never say that to deliberately hurt you, Jim." I say softly, and _now_, there it is, the guilt in his so-blue eyes. He shrugs and mumbles something. "It's just a statement of fact."

"Whatever," He says, and to my surprise- and hell, let's face it, _delight_-older Jim promptly reaches out and smacks him upside the back of the head. Hard.

"_Ow_!" He whines, I burst out into laughter, and Older Me says; "_Jim_," in a tone that is both amused and scolding. Older Spock's eyebrow is somewhere near his hairline, and my Spock comes over to stand by my side, and he doesn't so much as touch me, but somehow his eyes do-like a hand on my shoulder. It's a new experience, a strange experience; one I've never felt with anyone before. Something tickles at the back of my mind, itches uncomfortably, and suddenly for the first time in my life I can't meet Spock's eyes.

Or _Jim's_.

Because it doesn't go away when I look at Jim. It gets _stronger_. I feel myself shift, retreat a step- and isn't that just typical, the great, brave Leonard McCoy, running away again except this time there's no where to run to-but older me _does_ touch my shoulder, grip like steel.

"Kinda unnerving, isn't it?" He asks, gently, mouth near my ear. "Ain't gonna go away, so you may as well get used to it." And he pushes me forward gently.

"Jim," My Spock is saying, apparently oblivious to the weird, drawing _connected_ feeling. "There is no need for defensive behavior."

"Least of all around us." I push the tingling, drawing sensation to the back of my mind, shuddering slightly. It doesn't want to be ignored. "Now put away the damn attitude, kid."

He looks to his older counterpart, then smirks back at me.

"You just complemented the fuck out of me, Bones." He says, but the attempt at humor is strained and we can all feel it.

"He should." That's Older Jim, to my surprise. "From what I understand, you've done a pretty impressive job, all of you."

And this time, my Jim _blushes_, ducking his head. I don't think I've ever seen Jim _blush_.

"We're still young and inexperienced." I try, but Older Jim waves me off.

"You saved Earth." He drawls. "That's _experience_ in what matters- a crisis. And loss." He says, slowly. "You can't save everyone; that has nothing to do with 'no win' scenarios," He says, as Jim opens his mouth. "That has to do with common sense."

"_You_ are making references to common sense?" Older me drawls, and we all laugh. Well, everyone but the Spocks- and Older Spock's eyes turn up slightly at the corners and glint with amusement in something that's not _quiet_ a smile. I don't think I've ever seen our Spock do that. Our Spock, though, softens his face just _that_ much, dips his head as if trying to keep the urge to smile suppressed.

Hu. Lookitthat. That's new.

"Vulcan," Older Jim continues softly, once the laughter goes away and he stops mock-glaring at McCoy. "was a horrible loss. I've been there, I know how many live there. But if you think about that- all the people you've lost, you'll go insane. You _saved Earth_." And now he's talking to all three of his, his wolf's eyes flicking from mine to Spock's and back to my Jim's. "You're young, yes, inexperienced, yes, but you can _never_ be fully prepared for the positions you've got right now. No matter how long you're aboard a ship, it's different when you're _there_. You got thrown in head first, and you _handled it_ better then a thousand other people might. That's not a result of-of _training_, or _experience_. Yes, it helps, but this- you're either meant for this or you're not. You can do it, or you can't. Stars don't just embrace everyone, you know. You've experienced victory in a crisis and loss and _anything_ that comes next, you can handle. Except for the Starfleet Admirals and diplomatic kiss-_ow_, Bones!"

Older me has crossed the room to his own Jim and rapped him hard across the back of the hand not on my own Jim's shoulder.

My Jim snorts. "Paperwork is what I have yeomans for, and everything else I have Spock." He says, but there's a gleam in his eyes, a _spark _that I missed seeing. "Thanks." He adds softly, and his older self grins.


	8. Chapter 8

Something is different about my Spock. I don't know what he and his older counterpart did, or discussed, but there is something relaxed and mild about him, now- and that little almost smile from before? I've never seen that in the entire time I've known him.

It's weird. Nice, but very weird.

Something had changed, in this dynamic. That…._pull_, that _charge_ I felt before- that's new, too.

And _that_ far bypasses 'strange'.

He's currently talking quietly to the Jims now, heads bowed together and everyone but Spock gesturing heatedly as they argue or discuss. I'm not sure which, though older Jim keeps popping my Jim upside the head, and it's quiet the entertaining show.

I push my hand gently on the locked door, running my palm over the seal.

"It will not yeild." The quiet voice at my elbow both is and isn't Spock. It's older, deeper, but it has the same rhythmic quality, the same lilting, subtle undercore of expression.

When the fuck did I get so poetic about these things?

"I know." I snap. "I wasn't trying to push it down."

"I never implied such." He does not snap back, as my Spock might. He's infuriatingly calm, actually, and right now I'm so high strung and tense I _want_ him to snap. I _want_ him to argue with me, start something-it's not anything like the near-fight with Jim. Spock and I interact by bickering; it's friggin' _therapeutic_.

"I was," He's going on, "simply wondering what it was you were attempting to do, knowing that the doors would not yield to human-nor even Vulcan-strength."

"I was _thinking_," I snarl. "can't a man just _think_?"

If it was my Spock, or if I was the older Spock's McCoy, I think the comment that would come back would be along the lines of, _"I apologize, doctor-I so rarely see you doing so. It was unfamiliar to me."_

He's so obviously biting his tongue it's sort of amusing, though. "Of course." He says calmly, but his eyes are still Spock's eyes, no matter what differences there are between them, and I can see the spark of annoyance. "I did not mean to imply-"

"What, _apologizing? _No zippy comeback, Spock? Are things that different between Other Me and you?"

"No, doctor, there seems to be very little difference between our universes's Doctor McCoy and yourself." He sounds amused, and fond, and I'm surprised how easy that is to pick up on, in this Spock. "You are both highly emotional."

I blink. Blink again. Is he-is he _teasing_ me? Does this Spock know how to _tease_? I feel my hackles lay down despite myself, and fold my arm across my chest, leaning on the door. "So, what do you propose we do, Mr. Science Officer?" I hear myself drawl, but it turns out he doesn't have to do _anything_, because as soon as my back touches the wall it vanishes and I sort of fall head over ass.

Older Spock grabs my arm, and Jim grabs _him_ because my momentum unbalanced him, and soon we've got this ridicules human-mostly- chain going on with all of us teetering and unbalanced and absolutely _nothing_ for anyone to grab hold of because the wall is rapidly dissolving.

"Bones, what did you _do_?" My Jim snarls, just as Older Spock's foot looses traction, and our human chain becomes a human _whip_.

We all go over the edge.

It's soft, when we land. Well, _my_ landing is soft. People crashing on _top_ of me is not. I grunt, rolling out of the way, and when I sit up I'm peering at a laughing, silhouetted figure.

"Bravo." It says, coyly, wryly, and so help me, I _know that voice_, even though I've never heard it before in my life. Some part of me, somewhere, just says, _oh Lord, not again_, followed quickly by, _what the hell, McCoy?_

"You figured it out! You must have figured it out, or the walls would never have given way! Oh, how _wonderful_!"

"….oh, _hell_ no." To my surprise, it's not _my_ Jim who speaks with crude vulgarity, who's voice is rasping and low like he's just come out of an allyway instead of a starship. It's _older_ Jim. "No. No way in _hell_."

"Such _language_, dear Captain!"

"_Trelane?" _

"In one, captain Kirk, you're as intelligent as I remember. Or perhaps I am merely unforgettable." And the figure steps into clear view at last.

Short. Barely taller then Older Jim. Stocky, too, though with fat, not muscle. Brown eyes that glitter with laughter and curling, short brown hair. Soft. Everything about him comes off as _soft_, and somehow just looking at him annoys me.

Maybe because, oh, I don't know, he kidnapped us and held us in a tiny white room for fucking _hours_?

"Didn't you learn from _last_ time, Trelane?" Older Jim is asking, and he just sounds weary and amused now, like he's talking to a young child caught with his hand in the candy jar. He looks like it, too, ruffling his blonde hair, head tipped, looking for all the world like a parent.

I blink.

"Oh, but this time it was mother and father's idea!" He crows, and well, there's the _why_, anyway. He seems almost over-the-top in everything he does, like a stage actor playing to a packed house. Obviously, our older selves know this person- Jim, Spock and I are pretty much at a total loss.

"_Their_ idea? Last time, I seem to recall, they were none too happy with you."

He man saunters- freakin' _saunters_- down to us, still grinning that _stupid_ grin and looking insufferably pleased with himself. "They _weren't_, no, I will give you that," He says, with a little pout. My Jim is watching with a quirked grin and a befuddled expression, and Older Me has his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with what seems to be helpless, silent laughter. I think it's borderline hysterical. "But when they saw _these_ three, they decided you _had_ to meet!"

"…._why _did we have to met?" Older Jim asks, cautiously, and he sounds annoyed but not angry, and his lack of concern and fear seems to infuse we younger counterparts; my Jim look intrigued and amused, Spock curious, and even I can't be too upset when it's obvious that our older selves don't see this man as any _big_ threat.

"Oh, something about learning from each other, or some other nonsense. They let me do it so long as I promised to do things within the perimeters they gave me and 'behaved myself'." He makes a face, and despite the adult body, he seems to be little older then maybe twelve in reality.

"Are they here? Your parents?" Older Jim asks, stepping up in front of the rest of us. What the man does can't be called anything other then a _pout_.

"Always so eager to ruin the _fun_, Captain!" He folds his arms. "_Yes_, they're here. Mother, _father_, they wish to speak with you."

If this is the child, I'm fucking _afraid_ to see what the _parents_ are. But older Me lays a hand on my shoulder, and his mouth is near my ear again.

"If they're here, it should be alright. Accordin' to Jim, anyway." He adds, and I don't miss the tone of slight doubt in his voice. It's _amused_ doubt, and it's another tone I recognize in my own voice when addressing Jim-Related Problems. Amusement and fear and trepidation, all wrapped up in one.

I expect at least a human form, like the-child?-has taken, at least an attempt to relate to us; but no. No, instead, there is a warm glow from above 'Trelane', two silver, faintly pulsing spheres, and I hear my Jim let out a low "Holy _fuck_." From behind me.

"_Jim_," I snap, at the same time our Spock utters "_Captain_," In the same tone. He has the good grace to look abashed, at least.

But when the glowing orbs _speak_, well, I can't say I blame him for the second, low, "Holy _fuck_!" The rasps it's way from his throat.

"Captain Kirk." Says one, in a lofty, feminine voice, pulsing faintly when it speaks. We should be used to this- we really _should_ be. "I apologize that once again we have interfered in your life, and the lives of your companions, but I am afraid we found it to be necessary."

"Necessary?" Apparently, my Jim is allowing his older self to take lead on this- probably because of familiarity.

"Indeed."

"And _why_ was that?" Now older Jim sounds like my own, a sharp, impatient bark in his voice. Trelane looks like he wants to protest the tone, but before he can, the male….um, silver floating glow….speaks up.

"Your life has not been altered or interfered with, Captain." He says. "You will _all_ be returned to your proper timelines and ships with nothing changed and no damage done."

"But when we saw these three," She goes on, "we knew that you must encounter each other. They needed you." If she had fingers, I think she'd be motioning at us, then our older selves.

"_Needed_ them?" I ask, and I'm surprised at how steady my own voice is. "Now hold on just one minute, lady, what makes you think you know what we do and don't _need_?"

If anything, she radiates amusement. It's gentle, and warm, reminding me so much of my own mother that it actually makes me shiver.

"You have so much to learn, like our little Trelane." She says. "So much your older counterparts already understand."

The fact that _my_ Jim and this Trelane protest in unison makes Spock raise a brow and me twist to give Jim a Look.

He grins, totally unabashed.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **Oh holy crap, well lookie lookie what it is! Could it possibly be? NO! NO WAI, DUDE!

It is. It's an update. :P

I meant what I said; fanfiction is still going to be taking backdoor to my primary project. But the bug bit me again, and I figured I might as well finish the mostly done stuff I have up, right? So, here we go. I hope it's just as good! Please, don't hesitate to tell me if I've lost the flow, or it doesn't feel as in character as the rest of it.

**Chapter 9**

To be honest, this revelation should not have been one. All things considered, there are really not that many creatures that have physically transported us to an area off the ship, and when taken into consideration the actual situation at hand; Trelane is not a conclusion that would have required a leap in logic. But the _who_ had not been being actively considered.

Looking over at the small, very odd band that surrounds me, I can not say I disagree with the action of Trelane's...parents. It was clear that whatever universe these younger versions of ourselves had come from was very different then our own, and they needed guidance as much as any child does. And they _were_ children, from their own James Kirk...to myself.

And who better to offer that guidance then _oneself_? After all, even with the subtle differences, there is no one who knows you better. And in a way, I suppose, it rather forced us to look at _ourselves_, as well, and consider what we _did _know...and what we did not. Or perhaps did not realize.

He- that is, the younger me- stands very near the young Captain, shoulders nearly brushing as _that_ Jim Kirk regards Trelane with something that reads as bemused interest. No fear, but that shouldn't and doesn't surprise me; any universe's Kirk would be hard to frighten. Bravery and courage are at his core, and it is rather clear that there is no _immediate_ threat, in any case. Having dealt with Trelane and his parents before, I can safely presume there will _be_ no danger at all. He does not know that, though, and the protective stance is undeniable.

I have assumed it many times. Everything about it rings of subtlety, and unless you knew to look for it it could be easily missed. It pleases me, to see it now. From what he had told me, the two had an unsteady start- worryingly so. A universe in which myself and the Captain were enemies is an...uncomfortably unsettling thought. It should not be, as it has no affect on _this_ universe and the interaction between my-_this_ James Kirk and myself. Logically, what occurs in another universe, another time, should have no bearing on my thoughts.

But when I consider the possibility, I find myself disturbingly- _disturbed. _I find no shame in admitting a few, very basic facts, even if it is only to myself, in the privacy of my own mind. James Kirk has been a surprising point of stability for me. The first and only person besides perhaps my mother to see me simply as _me_, to accept that, and to ask nothing of myself but to _be_. Leonard McCoy has, in a very different way, acted as a conduit of another sort. Without them, I would perhaps be very different then I am.

It is not a pleasant thought. And when taken into consideration that, at his tender age, _that_ version of myself has already been through so much- loosing both his planet and his dear mother...

He will need them both.

I have always been a remarkably strong example of my race. Perhaps it is due to my human blood, as my father assumes, or perhaps not, but whatever the reason, I am sensitive, even for a Vulcan. What others can only do with physical contact, I can do from a significant distance, or through a solid object such as a wall. What others can only sense through direct, skin-to-skin contact, I can feel through clothing or, in a few cases, with proximity.

The Captain, Doctor McCoy, Uhura, Mr. Scott...I am very aware of what they're feeling when they are within a certain distance of me. Even what they're _thinking_, in rare cases. The Captain is, without doubt, the most extreme case of this. Frequently, I can _feel_ him before I even see him or he makes himself known verbally. He is a veritable storm of emotion, and rarely if ever makes an attempt to damper himself.

This sounds as though it might be a gift, perhaps even an advantage, and in some cases it can be. But it is just as often a burden. I can not- and do not wish to- imagine what the death of Vulcan felt like, if he is the same. Let alone his _mother_. I can only imagine the hollow after feel, as if a part of oneself was simply- cut away. Not empty, not hollow, just...gone. As if it had never been. And the ache it left behind never _quite_ faded away, like an improperly healed wound.

I have felt it on a small scale. On a magnitude of the one which _he_ experienced...

I refuse to consider it further.

Trelane's mother is speaking. I turn my attention away from my younger self, listening to her gentle and calm voice as she informs us that, now that we have accomplished what she- they- felt the need for, that we could be returned to our appropriate ships as soon as we wished it.

"I do hope you'll consider speaking with each other a while longer, though." She says, and though I can't see her, Trelane looks up as if watching someone.

"I get to send them back!" He says, like a child begging for a turn at a ride. "You said I could, if I did good bringing them here."

A low male chuckle. "When they are _ready_, son."

I lower my eyes, looking at myself again. This time, he is looking back. He looks- curious, interested. We had talked of Vulcan and Amanda as we searched that room; very little else. Now, I move forward, and he- in almost perfect unison- moves forward to meet me. Distantly, I am aware that the others are moving, as well; perhaps to say fare-wells, perhaps to offer last words of advice or curiosity. When we are close enough to speak quietly, I do.

Or at least, I _mean_ to- he speaks first, quick and quiet.

"You're- very different then I am."

"I have had very different experiences."

He studies me, then turns as a burst of laughter rings out; I know without having to look that is is _my _Jim. His laugh is unmistakable, even without the flood of warmth that is not my own. Once, an unwelcome and unusual invasion; now, a warm and comfortably familiar presence in the back of my mind. I am careful about my next words; though they are very much what he needs to hear, they may not necessarily be welcome, and they are not, necessarily, easy to bend enough to say.

"You are doing well." I say, low and intense; he snaps to attention, and while there is no other visible reaction, I know I've startled him. "You are doing very well. She would be-she would be proud. She _is_." I say, because I know my own mother well enough to know that much. "And, given the chance to see you, she would be the first to tell you as much."

He stares at me, long and hard, and I can see a battle I am not unfamiliar with. One half wanting to respond one way, the other demanding an entirely different reaction. Finally, he simply nods, hands lacing behind his back (w_here one will be squeezing the other quite hard, if I know anything about myself at all) _and eyes flickering to where our Captains stand.

"Trust him." I hear myself go on, as if from some distance away. "Though it may not always seem the _logical_ choice, it is often the _correct_ one. And there is a difference, more often than you will expect."

He doesn't take his eyes from the pair. "So I've seen." He murmurs. "His actions rarely are. Logical." He adds, almost as if in afterthought. This time, I think the flash of warmth is mine and mine alone. "He is...reckless. Impulsive. Thoughtless-"

"Wrong." He starts at my interruption. "He is _not_ thoughtless. Reckless and impulsive, certainly. But I have come to find that he merely- 'thinks on his feet', I believe he calls it. If he is anything like the James Kirk I have come to know, he may often leap before looking, but rarely without consideration."

He considers this for a moment, then; "Without meaning offense, my Captain is _also_ very different from yours."

"Perhaps less so than you suppose." I say, slowly. Age is something to take heavily into consideration, here.

Everyone I'm looking at is several years younger than ourselves. I would place Kirk to be no more then early twenties, McCoy at perhaps twenty five, and myself (by my own race's standards) to be roughly nineteen. _I_ am still considered a child to Vulcans, and he is younger then I am by some years. They are children, and that will have an impact on their personalities, actions, and choices. We have all had a chance to mature into the men we are now, and we _still_ change in small, almost unnoticeable ways throughout our travels- _they_ will grow in leaps. And looking at this young version of James, I see a very rough version of the man I call Captain and brother plainly and easily, shining like a precious gem hidden in a jagged stone shell.

He turns back to me, and I offer a tilt of the head, until he simply nods again. "I'll remember what you've said." He says mildly, in a way that tells me he will consider it, measure it, and weigh it in future choices regarding his companions. It is enough; they must do the rest on their own.

I am taken mildly aback when younger Jim approaches, smiling in a way that is- yes, that is _very_ familiar, the easy gait, the easy grin, the spark in his eye, laughing and playful. He looks me up and down, and I stand quietly under his regard.

He is _exactly_ like my own Kirk in that the moment he is close enough it is like a physical force. I can feel his amusement, his confusion, his contentment, and his curiosity. It's not as strong, as if muffled by a thick cloth, and there is something darker there. It's _not_ the same presence. It's just the smallest bit _off_.

Logical. This is _not_ the same person, even while it is.

He lifts a hand to clap my younger self's shoulder; there is a full-body stiffening I am fairly sure I'm the only one to notice, but the touch is gone nearly as fast as it came. He extends a hand to me, and I shock him when I gently accept it in my own. It is not an unpleasant sensation.

"Stay safe." He says, then, with an impish grin- "I hope I don't see you again soon."

Luckily,I am very used to this _particular_ brand of humor, and I allow him to see my understanding of it, softening slightly.

"As do I." I return, and he chuckles. He pulls away- seeming to understand that prolonged contact is not welcome- and offers a lop-sided grin. "I can't do the- whole Vulcan salute, thing-"

_Your elder self is no better at it._ I do not say, and I do not laugh, and I do not even smile.

"The sentiment is accepted all the same." I say, and you would think I _had_ laughed, or smiled, or said it, because he lights up like a child and _bounces_ back over to his McCoy. I blink.

My younger self sighs softly. "_Child_." I hear him mutter, which no one was meant to hear, and he turns back to me.

"Good bye." I tell him, softly, and, because he will _need_ it; "Good luck."

"That's the second time myself has said that to me." He informs me, wryly, offers me the salute, then- "Will it truly be so difficult?" Very low. Very soft. I wasn't supposed to hear the fear he will deny is there. There is no fear. He is, after all, Vulcan.

"Yes." I say, without pause, and when his back stiffens as he turned to walk away, I add- "But it will be worth it."

There is no response, but the set of his shoulders relax, and he moves more naturally over to where his Captain and the Doctor wait.

My own James Kirk comes to my side.

"They'll be alright." He says, hand on my shoulder. I don't push him away; he knows when he should remove his hand. "I mean- they _will_ be alright, you think?'

Uncertainty. Worry.

"There is no way to know what will happen to them." I say, because it's the truth. His hand tenses on my shoulder, and he looks down slightly.

"But," I go on, slowly, after a moment, "If I must hypothesize, based on what I have seen of them, felt,

and experienced myself...then yes. I would assume that they will most certainly be _alright_, Captain."

I am utterly unprepared for the sense of pride, or the beaming smile, but neither are unwelcome.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/n: *whimpers* ...first time writing Nu!Spock. Be gentle?  
**

**Chapter 10**

I was never fully sure what made me step back onto the _Enterprise_, two months ago now. It was not the Ambassador's words- or not them alone, I should say- nor was it any particular attachment to the crew. (Excepting Nyota, of course, and even if that situation it was not enough to drive me back to the ship.) Logically, I should have remained with my people- what was _left_ of my people. I had a duty to them. A responsibility. It was, in part, my fault. It was, in part...

...No. There is no logic or good in thinking such things. Neither myself nor the Ambassador were at fault, and there was nothing we could have done beyond what we did.

I could not name a single, tangible reason for my return. And yet return I had, and, to quote my elder self- it had _felt right_. The undeniable sense of _correctness_ the moment I had set foot on her deck, the moment the Captain had given me his smaller, more honest smile- the feeling of being a piece of a puzzle set neatly in his place when I had resumed my station-

there was no _logical_ explanation. But there it was, very real and more then slightly unsettling.

That said, I hadn't felt _settled_ since Vulcan had been destroyed. I could not sleep well. Could not mediate well. There was a perpetual ache in the base of my chest, distracting and irritating.

And then there was the crew itself- most particularly the new-found Captain and doctor McCoy.

While I have always been a heightened example of my races' telepathic and empathic abilities, I have never had anyone affect me quite so strongly. It was- subtle, at first, a distant realization that when McCoy or Kirk were within a certain distance I was aware of them in a way that was more then their physical presence. With time, it has become more pronounced; and they are undeniably the only existing people I am aware of in such a way, _including_ Nyota. Physical, skin-to-skin contact with either of them is out of the question; bad enough when Kirk touches me through clothing. It is rather like having every bit of air violently sucked away, only to be slammed back into your lungs moments later.

I pause, within reach of the pair. Kirk looks up, and, of course, places a hand on my shoulder.

"Okay?"

I steel myself against the concern-amusment-affection, and that last is unexpected at the least. I would not expect affection from him, even though we are no longer direct antagonists.

"Perfectly." He removes his hand as if sensing my discomfort, rubs the back of his own neck with it.

"If you're sure. We're about ready to get gone, so-"

"I will be ready when you give the word, Captain."

"Jim." He corrects- it's something he's begun doing only recently- and then the elder McCoy calls his name. Distracted (not that it is a remarkably difficult thing to accomplish with him), he flits off towards his friend's older counterpart, like the fly he has the attention span of when not in a crisis.

Apparently, neither he nor I consider this a crisis. Interesting.

But now that he is distracted, I turn back to where I left my elder self. He is following his Kirk back towards us, and when he feels me watching, he pauses. He changes course, slowly making his way back to me. There is an irrational..._relief._..when he speaks first.

"Have you noticed it?" He asks in a way that I know means it is not actually a question; he stands by my side without looking at me, watching our respective Captains instead. I toy with the idea of 'playing dumb', as the saying exists, but discard it as quickly as it comes. To pretend I don't know what he's referring to would only loose a potential chance for information from my elder self; information that, perhaps, will help me to balance myself again.

"Faintly." I say, "It's-disquieting."

"Particularly considering your already delicate equilibrium." The look he gives me bodes no room for protestations or arguments. It is flat and calm and level, and perhaps I am the only one that can see the warning in it. "Perhaps if you stopped fighting against it so bitterly, it would give you one less thing to interrupt your sleep."

He's- open. And frank. He's not _like_ I am, and I wonder if it's the effects of the exact thing I'm feeling or simply exposure to the crew for so long. The Ambassador had been much the same way. He seems at ease and comfortable in his own skin in a way I have never been, as if not one nor the other but simply both.

I have never been both. I have never dared try. Rejecting the Vulcan Science Academy was, perhaps, the most _human_ thing I have ever done up until the day Kirk stowed away on the _Enterprise. _I have devoted myself to my Vulcan heritage- I _am_ Vulcan- I- am one of the last of a nearly dead race- I-

-am half human. I am the last of _her_. There will never be another child of Amanda Grayson. Even if I were too sire a child who would have been her grandson...

"Even if you could stop it," He's speaking again, low and soft, "I assure you, there's no need to. It is distracting at worst. At best-" He looks at them again, and a warmth crosses his face, subtly. "You will come to appreciate it."

I do not lift a hand to my chest, the way I want to, to rub away the ache. An impulsive reaction that makes no sense- it can't be physically wiped away. I do not, but I grip my right hand tightly in my left and focus on the pressure.

"I fail to see how I could appreciate anything of this." I manage at last, and he lets out a soft sigh.

"I can only tell you my own experiences." He looks at me again. "Yours are considerably different. But you would not have returned to the Enterprise if you truly could not abide the company of-"

"Disliking and being physically affected by are two different things." I snap it, far more harshly then I intended to, far more loudly, far more _vehemently._ I shut my mouth immediately afterwards, taking deep breaths, focusing on the mental exercises he already offered when he were discussing Vulcan, in that small room.

"It is simply an awareness." He says, mildly. "And you will not met two more human then Captain Kirk and the Doctor." He doesn't continue the thought. He doesn't need to.

I grit my teeth. I don't need that. I don't need this.

_So why does part of me **want** it?_

"You can not," He says, very, very softly, "make it go away through sheer willpower. Any of it, least of all half of yourself, Spock. I suggest you make peace with it, or you will be unable to make peace with any thing else. You are, in part, as human as your mother. Are you so ashamed of her?"

My spine stiffens, and I snap to attention- shame is the last thing I feel for her. She is- she _was-_ a strong and proud women, beautiful and graceful and stunningly intelligent, able to outpace even my _father_ in debates and conversation-

He is watching me pointedly. He says nothing. Absolutely nothing. Simply gives me something that is almost-not-quite a smile, turns his back, and walks away. He leaves me with my thoughts, twisting and turmoiled, and an oddly warm presence in the back of my mind that I can't quite place until I realize the Captain is headed back in my direction.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **Okay, okay. Spock only got two chapters. Some people might kill me over this fact. I do apologize for it**. **

I want to thank everyone for being so bloody awesome, so supportive, so patient and so very great**. **You're the best fans ever, and I promise, I haven't vanished totally. I'll finish Sexual Harassment next, and I implore all of you to check out my Resonance of Fate drabble series. There might even be more Star Trek fic in the future- we'll see. Once again, I'll also ask everyone to please check out my website on my profile page, sign up for membership, and just generally be as awesome there as you are here! **  
**

**Chapter 11**

They go first. Trelane is, apparently, not as powerful as his parents (and _there__'s _a chilling thought for you) and he could only handle one group at a time. By mutual consensus, we decide the younger group should go back first. Our ship has a disturbing amount of experience with certain members of her crew randomly vanishing, being taken, slipping away, becoming invisible, and generally winding up in _really strange_ situations, so they were less likely to slip straight into- red alert, so to speak. (And what that says about us, I'm not going to dwell on.)

I leave my Spock's side to say one last good-bye to our alternate counterparts. I'm actually going to _miss_ them, which feels narcissistic but is still true. They're good kids. They're interesting, and I'm curious as a cat to know more about the other reality that makes up their world. But we don't have the time, and in the end, I suppose the less I actually know about that world the better. Time is not a thing to play around with. Maybe meeting yourselves won't instantly eradicate the world(s) as we know it (them), but you still want to exercise caution.

I draw even with Jim, who turns to smile at me. The look on his face that I hated so much is gone, replaced with a look I know to be pure, easy contentment. The smile is honest and open and reaches his eyes, making them a pale, sky blue. I return it, clapping him on the shoulder and I am _completely_ taken aback- only for a moment- when he draws me into a side hug. I pat his back lightly.

"Keep them safe. Take care of her." I tell him, "And yourself."

"You, too." He grips my hand firmly for a moment, searches my face as if committing it to memory. I let him.

"You really do look just like him." He mutters, after a minute, shaking his head. "It's crazy."

"All us old men start looking alike after a while." I tease, and he grins, stepping back. "You'll do just fine, Jim." Then, _very_ softly, keeping half an eye on McCoy who is already watching me suspiciously- "Give 'em hell."

He laughs, rich and warm. "I try my best." He returns, throwing me a sloppy salute and a wink. I ignore Bones' _what did you just say _glare, and let the kid go back to his Spock's side. They immediately start to talk, low and soft. I offer _his_ Bones a wave, and after a minute of suspicious stare he softens and lifts a hand, waving back with a lop-sided, reluctant smile.

"What did you tell him?" Bones asks, harshly, at last voicing it when he realizes he can't _burn it into my skull telepathically_, and I offer him my sweetest smile, pitching my voice to carry. "I told him to be good and listen to his doctor. What did you _think_ I'd say, Bones?"

"_Liar." _

I clamp my hand to my heart as if mortally wounded, and I can hear the laughter coming from my younger self; his Bones is watching with arms folded and a bemused smile, shaking his head slowly and fighting laughter.

Good. It's good that this is ending in laughter. I throw an arm over Bone's shoulder, and he leans comfortably into it for a moment.

"Said your good-byes?"

"Yep." He watches the three of them regroup; that Bones and his Jim are shoving each other lightly, snipping about something I can't hear; their Spock slowly comes up behind, watches them for a moment, then promptly back-peddles when their shoving fight threatens to include him. He says something, and I can hear Jim's tone pick up into a wheedling whine, sounding utterly heart broken.

And then, in a glimmer of light that reminds me of a transporter beam, they're gone. The echoes of their laughter and voices ring for a moment, then fade away after them.

"Guess it's time to go home." I say, taking my weight off Bones, stretching. Spock makes his way over to us, and we turn to face Trelane. He looks as though he wants to speak- he sends me a particularly vicious pout- but there is a soft, warning, "_Trelane..."_ from his father, and he huffs.

"Fine. Never get to have any fun..." Is the last thing I hear, before we, too, spin away into white, white, black.

When I wake up, I'm in the med bay. My head is pounding, just like before, but I seem to be otherwise unhurt...I slowly, carefully sit up. McCoy sits beside me, on another bed, and Spock is next to him.

"Welcome back, Captain." Spock says, as I stir, and Bones glances up.

"There's something for the headache on the desk, there, Jim." He points. I nod gratefully, accepting, and then I turn back to my first officer and medical officer, taking a slow, deep breath.

"What's the damage?"

"Surprisingly small." Bones replies. "You feel alright, other the the headache, Jim?"

"Fine. Ship's alright? Crew?"

"All fine." McCoy pushes upright, a little unsteady on his feet. "Apparently Trelane took it upon himself to let them know what was going on. They were worried, but not outright panicked. At least they knew- in a way- where we were."

I relax, a little more at ease knowing that my ship and crew were unharmed and not completely in the dark about the situation.

"We're going to have an interesting story to tell." I say, thoughtfully, and Bones nods.

"All things considered, it could have been- far worse." He says, sighing and running a hand through his hair. "Get some rest, Jim. Let the headache back off some. Spock's already feeling better, he can take over for a few hours."

Spock nods. "The affect of whatever Trelene did seems to be far lessened on me." He agrees, and I nod, letting out a low, soft breath and closing my eyes. I lean back onto the pillows, pulse and head throbbing in time, and play through everything that had just happened in my mind.

And I can't help but smile.

* * *

My head pounds like a bitch. Like the worst hangover ever, combined with a dinosaur sitting on your head, combined with a nice, happy punch to the jaw.

I groan. Someone is shaking me.

"Go 'way and lemme die in peace."

"Jim, you're not dying. Now sit up before I stop tryin' to be nice."

_Bones_.

I crack open an eye- and then yelp and wish I hadn't because _damn_, my head.

"Personal _space_, Bones, shit-"

"Do you _want_ me to make you feel better?"

I try the whole opening my eyes thing again. This time, Bones has backed off. The lights are dimmed, and I can make out Spock just a few feet away, watching us.

"We're back?"

"Thank you, master of the obvious. Here." He shoves a small pill in my hand- not a hypo, thank the Lord- and backs off again.

I swallow it dry, leaning back against the headboard and drawing my knees to my chest. "Everyone okay?"

"Seem to be in one piece." Bones turns his back to fiddle with something on a shelf, but he's not ignoring me. It's more that he _can't_ seem to look at me for long, and I don't really blame him. Something feels...different. I think we all pick up on it. It's subtle, but it's there, and when I look over at Spock I get the _same look _I got when he found out about what the Ambassador had done.

Now, I get Spock's not been on his stride since the entire thing with Nero. Can't blame him. _Don't_ blame him. None of us are exactly rock-steady except maybe Bones, and I'm not how the hell _he's_ so calm about all this 'cept Bones is _Bones_ and as much as he hates space and flight it's damn hard to shake him up. Really shake him up, I mean.

Anyway, Spock's about as hard to read as Latin, and even harder to understand. I get _why_, but that doesn't make it any easier. So now he's giving me this _searching_ look, like he's trying to find something I'm hiding from him.

"Spock?" I ask, because there's this strange kind of tension, something almost fragile in the room right now, and wouldn't it just be typical if I was the one to break it? But it feels like the right moment to speak. Even Bones has stopped fussing with whatever he's pretending to organize, standing with his back to us, very, very still.

Spock studies me for a long moment, then he starts across the room. I don't move- it feels like if I move, he'll bolt away like a spooked deer. _I_ damn near spook when he _voluntarily_ reaches out, curiously, looking like I'm some kind of experiment that hasn't come out the way he's expected, and touches my hand. He cocks his head, and his face is blank as it ever is but his brow furrows just a little, and when he pulls away-

Well. Look at that. _Fucking look at that._

He's _smiling_ at me.

Okay, no, not really, that's- sort of a lie. But it's- what that _other_ Spock did, when he looked at his Kirk, his McCoy. It's not really the same, but that's the closest thing I can compare it to. It's just...this weird softening of the eyes, the way his lips don't tip up at the corners but his _eyes_ do- in fact, it's all in his eyes. And it's gone just about as fast as I saw it.

"You two gonna kiss now, or?..." Bones' voice breaks the moment, and suddenly Spock is back near the door and _damn_ if I didn't even see him move.

"I think that might upset Uhura." I quip, and grin when he ducks his head- it's Spock's equivalent of a blush. Sometimes, if you say just the right thing, you can even get the tips of his ears to turn green. Uhura and I got it to happen just once, and I'm forbidden to speak of it.

"What was that?" I ask, when Bones' chuckling stops. He looks up again, and the expression is totally gone.

"An- experiment." He says, haltingly, and when he looks over at McCoy he looks _almost_ like he wants to do the same thing, but doesn't.

"Should I worry now? I mean, seriously, am I going start-" The joke dies in my throat, only partly because McCoy just pinched me.

_Hard_.

And partly because Spock has very visibly just gone bye-bye on me again, retreating fast and hard. I sigh.

"Hey, Spock, I was just messing with you. You find what you needed to?"

He looks up, and _bingo_, there it is again, fast and almost invisible. "Yes, Captain." He says, softly, and the weird, fragile feeling comes back into the air. "I believe I did."

"Good."

Bones, beside me, places a hand on my shoulder. There's something new between us none of us understands, but I can't help but think whatever this whole event caused- it- can't be _bad_. I mean, it doesn't _feel_ bad.

It feels...right.

And, even though I know it won't get a reaction, I return Spock's smile.


End file.
